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THE 


NEW PSYCHE; 


A PASTORAL, 


u 




BY IRWIN bjUNTINGTON. 


[PRANCES IRWIN.] 

Jile 


Author of “Tfje Wife of the Sun,” Etc. 






y 0 o 

JUN 3 1895 


7a 


of 


All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty — 
— [II. H. Stoddart; “Ilyin 


-Love!” 

n to the Beautiful.” t 


“Beauty’s akin to death!” 

— [Bailey’s “Festus ” 


“The Holy Spirit of the Spring 
Is working silently.” 

— [George McDonald; “Songs of the Spring Days.” 



MOBILE, ALA. 

THE GOSSIP PRINTING CO. 
1895. 


Entered accordiog to Act of Coogress, in the year 1895, by 
IRWIN HUNTINGTON, 

In t!)e office of the Librariao of Coogress, at Washington. 


TO 

MRS. JOSEPH THOMPSON 

of (Atlanta, Ga., 

President of the Board of Women Mar>agers of the 
Cotton States and I nternatiooal Exposition, 
This booK is dedicated 

BY ITS AUTHOR, 

As slight recogrjition of a true Southern 
woman’s worK for women. 


INDEX. 


Page. 

Dedication 5 

Foreword . . 7 

Chapter I — Come, Let Us Worship Beauty 9 

Chapter II— Rose Hamlet 16 

Chapter III— Love and Lilies . .28 

Chapter IY— “The Passion of the Groves” 34 

Chapter V— Cherokee Roses. 40 

Chapter YI— The Bridegroom’s Footfalls 48 

Chapter VII— The Spirit of the Spring 52 

Chapter VIII — “Ave Maria” 59 

Chapter IX— The Golden Gates 62 

Chapter X — The Regret of Spring 68 

Chapter XI— Hail! Sacred Light! 72 

Chapter XII — The Marriage Beautiful 76 

Chapter XIII — The Passing of Spring 82 

Chapter XIV— Before the Dawn 88 

Chapter XV— Into the Perfect Day 91 

Afterword 97 


FOREWORD. 


“The Unknown of today is the Truth of tomorrow.” 

Each soul hath its Bethel and, sleeping the sleep of Jacob, 
doth behold the ladder that spans between High Heaven and 
dreams . 

Whoso may deem my ltose idyl vision merely, I thus entreat:— 
Let us dream! And to whomso shall discern Truth’s coun- 
tenance beyond the mists, 1 speak thus :— Let us live! Both I would 
remind in the words of Jean Paul:— “There are few souls that 
know how far the harmony of the outward nature with our own 
reaches.” 

He is bold man who would draw the boundaries of the Real 
and say :— “ This is— that seems.” 

The great man knoweth death is larger being; and one 
who is great hath said: — “ It is the sleep that knows no waking.” 
Again, the words of the Psalmist:— “He giveth His beloved 
sleep.” 

But whatever goes to make up the woof and warp of dreams, 
I will state that my Pastoral is a dream of Spring. 

For valuable aid in obtaining statistics of the Parish of Point 
\ 

Coupee, and other information, my thanks are due to the Hon. 
L B. Claiborne, Judge Robert Semple, and Doctor Chas. Menville, 
of New Roads, La. To Mr. J. H. Siebert, of “Home Place” 
Plantation, and to Captains Prince and Mossop, on the Mississippi, 
I am indebted for hospitality and courtesies. 

In placing my completed work in the hands of the publishers, 
the memory is with me of one who aided the suggestions and early 
progress of its theme, by his father-like sympathy and counsel; 
one who has passed into Life since the opening chapters were 
penned— Col. F L. Claiborne, the venerable Mississippi an and 
kinsman of him who gave “Claiborne’s History of Mississippi” 
to America. 

And of thee, dear friend, to whom all facts have “become 
dreams, dreams facts,” I ask — for in the vast life that we live 
there is no real separation save that of good and evil that thy 
spirit will shed upon the result of my labors, something of the old 
time benediction ! 


Natchez , Miss., March 15th, 1895. 



\ 



THE NEW PSYCHE ; A PASTORAL. 


CHAPTER I. 


Come, Let Us Worship Beauty. 


Tiptoe poised on verge of sun, 

Peers the Sprite, in essence one 
With the High Twain, Life and Light, 
Of our earth to catch the sight, 

O’er the rim of utmost space . 

Away! Away! 

His burning tresses are astream 
’Mid quiet stars; his hands do seem 
Tossing back from brow of light, 
Elemental rainbows bright. 

One flame foot ’s aswing. God’s grace ! 
It is noon day. 


Pale green meadows wave away to meet the saf- 
fron tones of the lower sky. — Virgin fields. A 
stream binding the meads together with blue 
lovers’ knot. On the stream a green island ; be- 
low in the waters the island again, mirrored as 
white souls wear God. Here and there in the 
distance, tall sugar houses covered with ivy like 
desolate altars. Near, an Arcadian hut and 
Spring orchards of star-like blossoms. Broad 
lilies on the blue waters j beside them, great eyed 


IO 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


cattle asleep — Jersey and Guernsey — among lotus 
crests golding the margin. Above, amid the 
young green of old oaks, gray mosses dreamily 
waving. No sound ; yes! the call of nesting 
mocking bird. No- movement; yes! the fall of 
pale Oleander blooms, of white Apple blossoms, 
of petals in Cherokee hedges, the canticle of 
quickening life. Around, gold living light; up 
from maiden fields streams an orange glow ; 
through all, the pale fine fire of new born Spring. 
High, in the childlike blue of zenith, skims gray 
Crane from sea marshes. Hark! the great bell 
of yonder plantation calls the field hands to din- 
ner. — It is noon on La Belle Riviere. Hear again ! 
a sweet sound from afar!. — a long, low, caressing 
laugh half heard, of utter ecstacy of life and love! 
It chimes from the young Spring. April is only 
April’s self in Arcadia. 

Midday is golden upon earth ; midday with its 
tremulous hazes, its mellow glow, its dreamy glo- 
ries, its yellow lights. In the beautiful noon by 
La Belle Riviere’s lake-like stream in New Ar- 
cadia, the Arcadia of Louisiana, rests Gran’mere’s 
cottage, — dear Gran’ mere who lives with gold 
haired Babette by the Cherokee roses of Point 
Coupee, scarce four miles from Rose Hamlet, the 
county seat of this parish. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


1 1 

Yonder, between those Oleanders, nestles the 
Olende Cottage, the home of Gran’ mere, Marie 
Olende ; the straight white smoke of its chimney 
seems the Angelus rising to heaven, while the bell 
for noon day prayer sounds faint from the distant 
village. Little of the cottage is seen over here 
by the river; only the low thatched roof where 
blue wide-eyed flowers peep from the mosses and 
litchen, and the rough wooden stairs leading up 
to the loft from the outside. Not a glimpse does 
one get of the neat earthen floor, of the stout 
walls with fresh dirt filling up the gaps between 
great logs from the Pine lands ; of the two little 
chambers, with doorless arched opening between 
them ; of the wee porch where the “ Star of Beth- 
lehem ” glimmers ; of the broad, low lattice, where 
sweet-pea flowers have grown so tall these golden 
days, as to thrust within their rose and purple 
heads, and saucily nod: — “ Nous somnes jolies , 
Babette ! nous somnes jolies ! ( IV e are pretty, Babette ! 
we are pretty J) 

And what do the pea-flowers see, and the pale, 
sweet stars at the doorway, that never they grow 
aweary, and turn to the breeze from the river that 
woos them all the fair day, as grace woos a soul 
that is pure? 

Is it the low white bed with its home-made Ar- 
cadian bed-spread, — a snow flake lost from the 
winter? Or, is it the shrine and waxen St. Agnes, 


12 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


a thought of God among lilies. Is it the fra- 
grant thyme that swings from one wall to the 
other, shedding an humble sweet odor like the 
heart of a maid at Confession? Is it the loom or 
the wheel, or the rosary there on the dresser, like 
moonbeam on breast of a virgin? Is it the rush- 
bottomed chair or, — is it the maiden within it? 

Oh! it is the maiden within it, for Babette has 
eyes with the Spring in them, and the blue of the 
beautiful river; and the eyes have gold curling 
lashes and reveal the Pure, as the half lifted lid 
of a Chalice. And Babette has the sun in her 
hair, the sun of Spring, pale gold, that veils its 
face in mists in the morning of the year, and prays 
to God. 

How fair the plump little hand resting upon 
that great black wheel ; how that mazarine blue 
cotton gown clings about glimmering whiteness of 
throat and neck, like a strip of sweet sky to little 
opaline clouds ; Babette is a wee bit of heaven. 
She sits in a great broad sun-ray ; her star-like 
curls have shaken themselves out of the high Ar- 
cadian braids, and stream about her like the halo 
in her little print of St. Agnes with the Lamb ; 
one wonders where the hair begins and the sun 
ray ends, or whether it be hair or sun. Shy gold 
rings gleam on the low broad forehead, like little 
chancel lamps on white holiness. The mouth has 
the pure curves of the race, with the coy warm 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 13 

kisses bursting through, as a bruised field flower 
that awaits the honey bee, with all its sweetness 
on its lips; and the mouth of this little maid is 
tender with her unawakened power of love ; full — 
nay, one does not think of such things when one 
sees Babette, somehow one never looks at her, 
but through her to the Truth beyond ; something 
there is upon her face and form as vague, as in- 
tangible and no more to be described than the life 
and force of Spring or the odor of her native 
Cherokees. One feels the God within ; there is 
that strange half awe akin to sadness in her pres- 
ence, that is one with the eternal Beauty which 
penetrates and moves all life. The village folk 
are vaguely conscious of this, but can no more 
analize the sentiment than they can analize the 
sunset blush or the river’s blue. Even the rudest 
lad knows something of it; Alcide and Jeannot 
never kiss Babette on Fete days, or at the village 
games, as they do Margot and Eliska ; though 
envied of the hamlet is he, who wins the look 
that comes into her eyes at times. The maid has 
such virginity in the virginal lines of her body, 
that it seems pure with the purity of intense cold. 
The Chastity of Spring folds around her like 
Baptismal robe; and as Communion veil, lies the 
glory of youth upon her head. Her soul seems 
born with crown of grace upon it, at times one 
a jmost sees it shimmer, and the old folk of the 


14 THE NEW PSYCHE. 

village cross themselves and say — “ Our Babette 
is not as other maids; Cherie, you were born as 
the roses are ” — And in truth she is almost one of 
them. Babette is like pictures of Virgins one 
sees in great Roman missals ; and the curves of 
her neck and shoulders like the Saints’ in Cathe- 
dral windows. She is a vision from Scripture, a 
page from Revelations. Her pale, spirituelle, 
flame like beauty falls from her as incense from 
censers. One looks upon her and feels she is not 
fulfilment, but a promise, the fire woven veil of 
the Holy of Holies, half revealing the Perfect ; a 
virgin Prophet of the Beautiful, a consecrated 
Priestess of the Word ; at once a mystery, a soli- 
tude, a light. Yet, Babette is only a little peasant 
maid, living in the simple, hardy Arcadian way, 
kneading and baking, weaving and spinning, as 
other lasses by La Belle Riviere ; dreaming by 
night and singing by day with a voice that sounds 
like a little Mass bell, of the true love she knows 
“ is coming, is coming.” 

Babette is fourteen now, and at fourteen one 
is quite a woman grown in Arcadia, and has one’s 
trousseau stuff laid away in the great chest in the 
loft where white rose leaves rest upon sweet linen, 
like grace upon an altar cloth. 

No one ever calls her anything but Babette, ex- 
cept indeed, the ROSE OF ARCADIA, for one 
sweet morning when the Spring Babe was trying 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


*5 


hard to thrust her little pink fingers through the 
tight pale buds of the Cherokees down by the 
river, Gran’mere sees something that looks like a 
big blown rose in the hedges. Is it the young 
soul of the season moving among new leaves? — 
Gran’mere does’nt know, but crosses herself; 
Sainte Marie! it is a wee human thing and it 
wails like a little nest bird. A foundling! But 
the Arcadian’s faith is a faith that is love, and 
Gran’mere takes a little sweet limbed babe to her 
heart ; and within the Olende cottage there comes 
the light and life, the flush and odor of Spring, as 
in all the Cherokee hedges of the Parishes des 
Arcadiens, the roses bud. 



CHAPTER II. 


Rose Ramlet. 

Spring is Love, 

And Love is Spring. 

A greening irregular street, low cottages in 
wee square gardens linked by far reaching rose 
vines ; each cottage and garden is as like its next 
neighbor, the next and still the next, as those two 
big roses. This hamlet is a sweet checker board 
with roses for lines of division. Great white 
roses, sweet white roses; roses nodding from 
verandahs, roses peering into lattices, roses tossing 
from gable ends, roses tumbling in delicious riot 
from eaves and rafters ; roses wooing roses from 
either side of cottage gates ; roses playing at hide- 
and-seek along fences; roses clinging to draw 
chains and peering down into old cool wells to 
laugh at water roses ; roses swinging from dove- 
cots ; roses framing bee-hives ; roses piling in 
nooks and corners of wall and street and garden 
in wonderful masses of odorous white beauty, 
like white-capped nuns at Chapel, chanting the 
hymn of Spring to invisible shrine of the Mystic ; 
whispering how glad and sweet a thing.it is to be 
a rose and blow in Arcadian weather. 

There, past the homes and the roses, is the vil- 
lage church ; it shows pure white against the 
chaste blue of sky, like grace new fallen from 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


*7 

Heaven. Yonder, still further down the road, 
are homes again and the roses; then the common 
field and the orchards. This road is greening, 
for Spring has just passed through the village. 
See ! blue blossoms and white blossoms hide in 
sweet pale grasses, peep blue and white, white 
and blue, now blue, now white, down the right 
side, down the left side of the road, like half hid- 
den fresh benedictions — a rosary with grass for 
the chain and blossoms for Ave Marias. Two, 
three, half a dozen white things nod quite out in 
the middle of the road in those brown ruts made 
by the wains of the village; they seem holy 
thoughts astray. Over there, just across from the 
church, between those two cottages where we 
catch a glimpse of blue river stands the white 
cross of the mission. Against the young sky tint 
is a flock of doves. Hear the faint rustle of 
wings, — now the sound of cooing ! It is the whisper 
of Spring. This is the way Spring comes to 
Arcadia, always with doves and with roses. And 
this is Rose Hamlet in April. 

• Faintly as yet, but distinctly, all through the 
parish and hamlet is felt the influence of the season. 
Animate and inanimate nature grow conscious. 
Something is astir, something holy and beautiful 
and all pervading; earth grows sensitive ; nature 
feels; bud droops upon bud and to hearts come 


l8 THE NEW PSYCHE. 

the knowledge of human love. Soft unrest is upon 
all things, the awe of the Will moving from 
Bosom of the Father through the lilies and the 
soul. There is a movement as of birth, a tremulous 
waiting ; from the womb of Life comes the mystery 
of Spring. 

And the pulse of the Spring beats louder, it is 
almost audible, and — Babette is coming, — young 
maid Babette shedding sweetness around her, — 
Babette with her virginal beauty. She passes the 
Courthouse; now seen, now lost sight of, down, 
down, still down the village street twinkles the 
little gown of bright Cottonade. 

There is a sun bonnet in one hand, an egg 
basket in the other. She has been on an errand of 
mercy to Mere Rose’s cottage at the end of the 
fields, singing still singing of her true love that is 
coming, “ her Prince who will ask for a rose ” — 
for thus he will greet her the flowers have said, 
and the stars and the voice of the river; and the 
day when he will come will be a King of days. 

Babette is a little dreamer, she knows nothing 
of life outside Rose Hamlet, cares for no book 
but her illuminated Bible; but the Saints from 
its glorious pictures come down and walk in the 
fields, and fairies she meets by the river. Babette 
is in touch with all purity and grace ; she walks 
abroad with Beauty, she is part of the All-Fair, 
and in it as in a pure mirror, finds only Babette, 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


l 9 


for Beauty is one as Love is one. Her life is a 
perfumed altar flame that ascends to Heaven 
because it must; a silver clear spring bubbling 
skyward by reason of Nature’s decree. She is a 
thing of Spring akin to light and trees and water ; 
she dwells in the midst of a larger and broader 
Life, and her soul is the pure white page whereon 
is traced golden letters of that Law of which the 
maiden form is the incarnation. 

See ! she gains the open space ; there, where 
the trees are and the band of blue river; as waters 
flow into waters, as leaves rustle among leaves, 
as grasses wave among grasses she comes among 
them ; nay, is not among them, but of them ; she 
glides into them, is one with them and of their 
essence. 

And the pulse of Spring beats louder. 

There is a rose in her hair. Oh! shy Babette! 
Sweet Babette! Strange! her Prince seems nearer 
to-day. She hears so plainly the Voices of the 
Mystic and feels in her heart something atremble 
like a little bird under leaves; the Invisible holds 
out to her some new and wonderful happiness ; 
holy mysterious voices bade her wear a rose, a 
pure white rose. 

Babette of Arcadia, fair young bud full about 
the heart with unborn rosy sweets. 


20 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


Spring is come, Spring is come! Hear! a faint 
sound from the river, a stir in the hedges makes 
answer: — “Spring is come, Spring is come.” 

She heeds not, but stands quite still and listens, 
listens, listens. 

A voice from afar over meadows, now nearer, 
nearer still, quite near is singing: 

“0/ je vous en supplie 

Donnez moi cette rose qui touche voire main." 

New sweet lights come into your eyes Babette, 
the egg basket falls from your hands; this breeze 
from La Belle Riviere will toss it out upon the 
blue. The basket moves ; — it rolls to the water’s 
edge; it flutters from that tall reed. There is a 
lull — your chance little maid, a moment and the 
wind will come again. Ah! Babette, Babette, 
this is no time for dreaming! 

At last, — she springs to seize it, eyes aglow, 
lips apart. 

“I will fetch it, Mam’selle.” 

Blue eyes deepen with startled appeal, they 
look into a pair of lucid greys, — that young 
Arcadian has leapt the Cherokee hedge. A rush, 
one, two, three great strides through green rushes. 
There, Babette holds the truant thing once more. 
He hands it to her with the simple shy grace of 
the Teche. Their hands touch ; nameless sensa- 
tion flows over them, too vague and indefinable 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


21 


to be called feeling; far off strings are being 
touched. Nature’s hand is on the Lute of Spring. 
They stand face to face struggling with intangible 
influence; it is as though a gossamer web of light 
were upon them which they feel but cannot touch 
or remove. 

The youth is less robust than most sons of the 
race and has a rare beauty which is soft without 
effeminacy, combining dreamfulness with force. 
He is well knit though frailer, less tall, muscular, 
and broad shouldered than men of Nova Scotia ; 
of slight build and stands there a form of grace in 
those homespun trousers and blue blouse. One 
sees that his hair has reddish tones; that broad 
yellow straw hat rests carelessly upon it; there is 
a pale blonde growth about his lips ; they show 
extreme sensitiveness and unconscious power. 
The forehead tells of dormant mental strength, 
and the eyes have an abiding wistfulness of one 
who looks afar, seeing visions and living amid 
day dreams. It would seem this Arcadian were 
half child, half poet. 

Youth and maiden are flushed with the race 
and new sensation ; vaguely they feel themselves 
drawn closer to nature ; it is as though this rose 
light of passing day were being absorbed into 
them. Mutely, they stand on the threshold of x 


22 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


Sun World of Love and Beauty, for the first stir- 
rings of pure human emotion are holy, and as milk 
white lambs for the altar of God. 

All unconsciously, words escape them here in 
the reddening evening: — 

“ Spring is wonderful !” 

“ Spring is beautiful !” 

Now, more naturally: — 

“My name is Pierrot, Pierrot St. Eloi. I come 
from the T6che-the Bayou des Arcadiens, — and 
I seek Mon Pere St. Cyr down in the hamlet 
yonder.” 

“ I am Babette and live with Gran’mere; but 
Mon Pere lives — look! you can see the chimney 
there, — over there by the church. You will not miss 
it, — nay, I will take you myself, may I?” shyly, 
“you were good to me.” 

Sunny brightness wakes upon his face, the sim- 
ple and sweet radiance of nature’s perfect purity. 

“Oh! if you would, Mam’selle, I should like 
it so.” 

They look full upon each other by sudden 
mutual impulse ; the first swift flush, new and 
faint, dawns upon Babette’s cheek and brow; 
upon cheek and brow of Pierrot ; they are be- 
wildered, half happy, half affrighted. 

To all the human comes the hour of awakening, 
the Genesis of Mind, when the nude spirit revealed 
unto itself, stands amid its fallen veils and looks 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


2 3 


upon the Mysteries of Being. Love speaks to the 
darkness: “ Let there be Light!" And with the 
break of the soul day, as with that of earthly 
morn, comes the holy glow of pure human brows, 
fresh sprung from the fount of Universal Dawn 
whose living waters flow crimsoned with His 
Blood. 

Again Pierrot, as they retrace their steps through 
the hamlet — 

“ You have not yet told me your name.” 

“ Babette.” 

“ Yes, Babette I know, but the other, — your 
parents’ name, Mam’selle.” 

She is kept as fresh in her great innocence as 
dog violets in snow. 

“ There is no more. I am only Babette, and 
they call me the Rose of Arcadia. Ah, see, Mon- 
sieur, there is Mon Pere himself/’ 

The voice bursts from her, high and clear: 

“ Mon Pere, Mon Pere St. Cyr! here is one to 
see you, Mon Pere — he goes to ring Ave Maria, 
we must wait.” 

Again they are silent. The mocking bird in 
the great oak by the river answers Babette ; her 
voice is the voice of all living things, it is the voice 
of Lily of the Valley, and of Rose of Sharon; 
nature gives it back because it is a part of her and 
swells the Vernal Hymn. 


2 4 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


They have reached the greensward opposite the 
church and stand in the pale shadow of the great 
white cross ; La Belle Riviere almost laves its 
foot, it is as though the Holy Spirit brooded by 
the waters. Just opposite is a low broad band of 
daffodil sky ; the river takes on intense blue ; the 
golden lobe of Sun suspends between stream and 
sky ; now it touches the current and shivers into 
a thousand splinters of light that shoot long, 
glittering, sharp spears and fire needles down into 
the waters and up into the purpling sky blush. 

Notes of the Angelus come. The hamlet is in 
gloom ; the river in radiance ; and the cross shows 
forth as if in has relief. Instinctively, youth and 
maiden kneel ; the sun-like head bends low and 
almost touches the red-gold one ; Babette’s hair 
seems braided light. The white rose has caught 
the last sun ray and shines out in this faint twilight 
like Peace made visible. She bends too low ; the 
rose falls to the ground; it arouses them — the 
faint movement felt rather than heard ; Pierrot is 
saying : 

“ See, there is Mon Pere again, he has left the 
church.” Regretfully, “ I must bid you adieu — 
and thank you, Babette.” 

The words come slowly with a vague, half 
dreamy regret in them born of the intangible 
influence of the season. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


2 5 


She answers — as vaguely and regretfully: 

“ You go ! Not yet, not yet ; wait a little. ” 

Above the murmur that arises from the young 
year, swelling, falling, now gathering strength, 
now dying, for the second time the voice of the 
Arcadian : 

V'/Si vous me regrettez, Of je vous sn supplie, 

Donnez-moi cette Rose qui touche voire main. ,i 

And thus he has come,— her Prince who would 
ask for a rose. 

She starts as if just awakened. A flood of light 
seems to sweep over her, it touches them both, 
they stand within it. Now is the maid a human 
mirror crystal clear in which a great Truth looks 
upon itself; a transparent tabernacle where a 
Mystery sits. Out of the measureless trust, the 
supreme simplicity, the perfect nature of her, she 
speaks, her lips still sweet with prayer — 

“ You have come, I knew you must, and I have 
waited.” 

Little white hands with a great white rose are 
outstretched, quivering; as with one impulse, the 
youth’s are extended to receive them, and tremble. 
He would answer, — she is gone ! He is gazing 
after her into the distance and a drowsiness 
comes upon him ; it is sudden; he has not felt it 
before. He remembers the way is long from 
Atchafalaya to - Rose Hamlet-: he has trod the 


2 6 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


leagues ; he must sleep — here by the cross and 
the darkling river ; he will seek Pere St. Cyr at 
dawn, not now. 

And the Arcadian dreams a dream he cannot 
understand : — There is a Mystic i?iarriage rite . Love 
and Beauty stand before a great white Throne and 
pledge their union with a Rose. The name of the 
high priest is Spring. 

Babette scuds through the twilight fast as flying 
feet can carry her, onward, onward still, yet faster. 
New shyness has faken possession of her, she may 
not pause nor look behind. A strange, sweet 
joy steals through her frame. She must fly — she 
knows not wherefore — blindly, swiftly, to deep 
woods. It is the impulse of the hare of the forest, 
of the deer of the mountain, of all lesser creation. 
And through the Scale of Life one impulse runs. 
On the Heights man stands alone ; he kneels apart 
on Calvary and Tabor. Supreme emotions are 
solitudes ; in their birth moment, as in that of 
death, the naked human heart would throb on 
Christ’s and bound forth to meet Him through thy 
silences, Oh! Nature, dear interpreter of God. 

And Babette flies through the twilight. There ! 
she strikes her foot upon that great log ; it recalls 
her, she is startled now; night gathers and she 
has wandered far ; she feels the weight of the egg 
basket upon her arm, and thinks of Gran’m&re 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


27 


who is waiting, the hens to be fed', the pea flowers 
to be watered. She turns’ swiftly ; now darts off 
in the direction of the Olende Cottage and runs, 
runs. And her heart is as a little bud swelling, 
bursting, opening. Does she hear it throbbing as 
she goes, or is it but the beating pulses of the 
Spring? List! the throbs grow clearer, and 
more strong ; again in the thickets of Cherokees, 
the Roses blow. 



CHAPTER III. 


Love dQd Lilies. 


It is Easter Morn, the Morn of 
Lilies. This stream of Arcadia 
Lies faintly violet between 
Pale gray lilac shores. Purple 
Dawn hues rest upon it. On its breast 
Lilies tremble wan shadow b!ue, 

And pallid white in amethyst 
Light. And lilies tremble. Hark! A 
Footfall— Christ walks among them. From 
Yonder bloom mid-stream floats upward 
Virgin Spring, Bride of God; in her 
Hands are lily sheaves that blow and 
Blow; upon her moon -like brow do 
Lilies gleam as day-stars. She lifts 
Her mist veil to the Lord. Glory 
Of Dawn falls from her. Nature takes 
On a universal blush. And 
Lilies tremble. Speaks the Master, 

“Peace.” Ilis word is Day . See! Dewdrop 
Faints on Morning-Glory’s lip, for 
Holy rapture in Easter morn ! 


La Belle Riviere. This morn is wonderful and 
golden. From the herd on those faint green 
meadow lands comes sweet sound of sheep bells. 
On the river blow great blue and white Lilies, 
Vestals of Spring ; far and near, up stream and 



THE NEW PSYCHE. 


2 9 


down, still lilies and lilies. Those pure white and 
dun heifers are chewing the moss of the river. 
Faint purple mist clings to meadow and water; 
the light is carnation ; the atmosphere shimmers 
gold ; it is of ethereal transparency and reflects 
the sun rays exquisitely, purifying and spiritualiz- 
ing every tone. Now there is a wonderful white- 
ness, see! it beams and blushes into every hue of 
flame opal. Low heliotrope lines follow the 
course of the river; they are where morning- 
glories swing the great purple bells of morning; 
hear! from copse and hedgerow, bush and moss- 
bannered tree, the all-present Mocking bird 
answering, sings. Now opens the wide Temple 
of the Day ; matins rise. Dear Brother, walking 
down the morning groves, according to thy spirit’s 
clearness, thou dost hear but voices of passing 
life, or hosannas of Love that is, and behold, or 
see not fairness in the waking fields. God is 
Beauty ; the clean of heart see God. 

A Mocking bird sings in Gran’mere’s lattice* 
Babette awakes; she looks like a great lily, the 
lily queen of lilies; there is lily odor in her soul, 
lily fairness on her brow, and dew upon her brain. 
She cannot think what day it is. Ah! a glad 
little cry, — she remembers — it is Easter Morn, 
Resurrection Morn, Morn of the dear Christ and 
His lilies. This thought adores the God Love; 


3 ° 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


the next — for Love is a great Light, the Sun of 
Suns, divine alike in human soul and Angel; the 
Great Cause, an all pervading essence — and the 
consciousness of human love falls like snow flakes 
over her spirit. She wonders, only half wonders, 
—she hardly knows she wonders — if it might be, 
if it shoidd be, that Pierrot St. Eloie will serve 
the Easter Mass. Leon Robin, Mon Pere’s assist- 
ant, is ill ; Pierrot may offer, and — 

Now she bears in mind the eggs to be gathered 
together. One thinks in Arcadia the whole year 
round of the fun of cracking eggs with one’s 
neighbors before the Church at Easter; have not 
one’s meres and gran-meres done so ever since 
the first rose bloomed in the hamlet? The girls 
of the village like it, the lads are sure to be there, 
and Babette, — why, Babette likes it too; she is 
only Babette, and a little Arcadian maiden. She 
thinks how brave she will look in the white gown 
Gran-mere wove for her last Whitsuntide, and 
which she only wears on great Sundays and fete 
days. She thinks of the laundered kirtle like a big 
snowdrop ; of the blue ribbon she has placed in 
her cap. A returning wave of feeling breaks 
spray-like into thought of her Prince who had 
come through the sunset and taken away the rose. 
He is still her Prince, this Pierrot, and would yet 
be so had he appeared in beggar’s guise under 
the foretold conditions. He is not the Arcadian, 


THE NEW PSCYHE. 


3 


but an ideality in form of the Arcadian ; a result, 
the outgrowth of her peculiar mental position. 
Her faculties are in that fine condition when the 
influence of form and matter is unfelt, and what 
is sensual and real is whelmed in the ideal and 
intangible ; it is the beatitude of senses. 

Babette is nearly ready now, very nearly, quite. 
All the while these thoughts have been run- 
ning through her busy brain she has been dress- 
ing ; Babette never loiters, but makes her toilet 
like the birds. To-day, she feels a strange im- 
patience, and a new joy that is like dawn breaks 
and unfolds within her into increasing beauty and 
brightness each moment. It is the unwritten 
Vernal Gospel. Again, the blessed Saints have 
been with her. She dreamed all night of her 
Prince standing amid the yellow corn; and the 
voices of the sheaves called them together, and 
hedgerow and tree beckoned them to approach 
each other. 

She throws open the casement; the soft lustre 
of the day comes to her full of undefined forms, 
and the air with vague whisperings. She is in 
touch with all nature ; there floats unto her with 
the thousand murmurs, the infinite fragrance of 
morning, the fullness, the tenderness and the 
might of Spring. She hastens down the cottage 
steps into the garden. Spring is here, Earth’s 
sweet Betrothed, and Virgin Day. Babette’s life 


3 2 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


is as the day ; Eternal Law is manifest. She is 
happy with the vague, expectant happiness that 
surrounds and pervades all things; an unseen 
Power is felt, — the Spirit of the Spring. With 
each moment her state of feeling becomes more 
intense; she is glad as those Easter lilies down by 
the gate are glad, for very joy of being. They 
seem to say to her: “ Sweet Sister you will meet him , 
you will tneet him and the river Lilies to whisper: 
“ Be patient and wait, be patient and wait.” Buds 
burst forth around in myriads ; the foliage is of 
deeper green than at yester eve ; countless 
leaves have shot out in the night; grass blades 
are broader, between them is a carpet of bloom. 
Here is a lizard on Gran-mere’s young pea vine; 
tiny beetles sun themselves in the path. Earth 
teems with young broods; a world of moving life 
comes forth. Odors are stronger ; the voice of 
field and wood gains power; the bird chant 
sweetens and grows universal. That was the 
Oriole just now ; Babette loves it ; she was never 
heedless before ; her thoughts deepen ; she is ab- 
sorbed. A grasshopper swings on the pale new 
weed at her feet unnoticed though she looks full 
upon it ; in the broad Morning she beholds but 
one face ; in its voices hears but one voice. O ! 
son of man, who lookest upon earth and stream 
and seest in all things the image of thy Beloved, 
it is no dear delusion, but truth, which is Beauty. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


33 


From the Central Love we draw our separate 
loves ; Heart and Nature, sisters in the Holy 
Scheme, give back the features of the Parent 
Love. 

“Babette, Babette, cherie, come Mignonne.” 

Gran-mere Olende calls her to breakfast. You 
go reluctantly, Babette, as if you are half con- 
scious, and walk in a dream. Good Gran-mere, 
even brown bread and sweet milk are scant 
temptation when it is Spring, and Easter Morn, 
and one is waiting for one knows not what. That 
which in the dawning year men call Promise, is 
Pure Desire in awakening soul. 

Hear! Babette,— still lilies are calling. See! 
Babette, — the flower of Arcadia makes white the 
Cherokee hedges , — the Roses u?ifold. 



CHAPTER IV. 


“The Passion of the Groves.” 


Thus spake First Spring to a Heart and a Rose: 
•* Sweet daughters, salute me, I pray.” 

Flower, in answer, poured odor around, 

And Heart dropped its love on the day. 


This is the village Church. Long, low, cool, 
sweet smelling. Stainless, whitewashed weather 
boarding. Wood altar gleaming pure in chaste 
Easter cloth. Lilies everywhere; gleaming from 
rafters ; clustering in corners. Those great beams 
overhead are clothed with them ; they are lily 
beams. Lilies everywhere. Lily bank at the 
Altar base; lily band upon the Altar. The great 
lily twining about the cross looks like Purity re- 
vealed. Those tall lilies, among star-like tapers, 
seem Virgins chanting the Easter Canticle; the 
lights are the lamps of the Virgins. The altar 
looks the Lamb resting on Lilies. The white 
spots, here and there, in the building are the 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


35 


maidens’ Communion veils left on the benches ; 
they seem like Peace descended. Cool and rest- 
ful, this Arcadian Church. How sweetly mocking 
birds sing in the rows of open windows on this 
side and that. That soft swish and rustle is the 
brush of the Cherokee branches outside against 
the casements. A cowbell sounds clear from the 
pastures. The place is bathed in sun-rays; 
Heaven of Heavens has opened that Christ may 
hear the lilies’ hallelujahs. 

Mass is over. How crowded the Church porch 
is now. One can scarcely hear one’s voice for the 
merriment. Take care! those egg shells are 
slippery; every inch of space is strewn with them. 
Fun is at its height. See! there are Easter eggs 
everywhere. Look at those great market baskets, 
they are full of them — red, yellow, green, purple; 
they bear the image of every saint in the Calendar. 
Those old dames on the steps have eggs ; they are 
resting. How the knot of lasses chatter over 
there to ihe left That little scream was Marie’s. 
Jeannot has cracked her egg and claims it in for- 
feit. What a mass of color it is. A sea of blue 
cottonade gowns, of yellow homespun, of white 
newly starched kirtles, of caps with ribbons of all 
colors, darting, nodding, flying, tumbling awry, 
as their owners stoop to pick up eggs, or bend to 
catch falling ones. It is as though a bit of rain- 


3 6 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


bow had come to earth and disported itself this 
Easter day. Was there ever such merry tumult, 
such laughter, such breathless exclamations, so 
many “ oh’s !” and “ah’s!” and “I've won my 
prizes,” and “ come play with me’s,” and 
‘'mercies?" Was there ever such mirth, was there 
ever such gladness? 

Green Arcadia ! In many lands blows Easter 
Lily, and chimes ring in the great white Day ; 
but thy flower is made of Heaven’s grace, with 
the Father’s smile for a stamen — such is the 
Arcadian maiden. A bell rings in thy rose groves 
God wrought of a sunbeam in shape of human 
heart, with innocence within for a clapper — such 
is the laugh of the maiden. 


Pierrot has served Mass. Once, twice, thrice, 
his eyes have met Babette’s; it is over now; she 
will wait. Andre and Jacquot plead with her to 
play at eggs; they are chagrined, she has never 
refused before, and they have waited so long for 
this. Here comes a group of lads to entreat her 
further; they do not understand — Babette is not 
Babette to-day. Those girls over there call and 
beckon to her; she does not go, but glides down 
the side steps into Mon Pere’s garden. This is a 
quiet little spot beneath these great white roses ; 
she will wait — he will come to her. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


37 


He is come. — Pierrot is saying: 

“You knew I would seek you.” 

“I knew you would seek me.” 

“I sought long before the Church for you, they 
told me you had gone ; you do not play at eggs 
to-day.” 

“The noises worried me. I will try with you ; 
see! I have chosen my egg already.” 

“You have many there, and beautiful; mine 
are only plain ones.” 

“We will play now.” 

They strike the eggs together — again ; they do 
not break — once more — the frailer shell gives way ; 
it is Babette’s; the shock sends her hand into that 
of her companion. Again their eyes meet; 
neither stirs. An intangible spell is upon them, 
and an influence is about them they are powerless 
to combat. They do not act, but are acted upon. 

Pierrot moves slightly towards her. She is 
conscious of the faintest perceptible hand pressure, 
and cannot resist; it is more distinct now. A 
slight tremor passes over them — the music wave 
of sensation. Their hearts are as two reeds ; the 
Spirit Wind sounds a faint note in Sonata of 
Spring. And to them both comes power of hitman love 

A passing breeze brings swift sudden odor of 
Cherokees, and shakes strong perfume from the 
rose vine on the trellis. Life calls unto life, joy 


38 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


unto joy. White leaves flutter down upon their 
heads, and on their virgin beings, the sweet first 
peace of Love, 

Holy Spirit of the Spring, thou workest silently ! 

They murmur in turn, vaguely, and in half 
whispers, as one speaks in sleep: 

“ I love you.” 

“I have loved you always.” 

All power has gone from them, they are moved 
by one Will. 

Pierrot leans yet nearer. Her sun-like hair 
floats on his breast like rays. The red-gold head 
touches it; it is as though a halo is upon them, 
the flame of inner light. 

They start. There is a sound of footsteps. 
Some one seeks Pierrot. They are apart now, 
but near each other a last moment. Vivid force- 
ful airs comes to them. The silence blooms. 
The sun is high on happy pastures. Glad fields 
are faintly golden in noon light. Hark! the call 
of wood pigeon to its mate. Jubilant woods are 
clothed in young verdure. Bird woos lover bird 
from rejoicing trees. Dove coos unto dove in the 
myrtles. Young life thrusts Beauty through bark 
and sod. Moments are pregnant with new fair- 
ness. The Vernal Mystery goes on. Spring 
flows widening around. It flows into them ; for 
is Beauty visible Love, — Love invisible Beauty. 
Pierrot murmurs : 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


39 


“I love you” — and Babette — 

“ I have loved you always. I have waited. I 
knew you would come.” 

A laugh ! “ Bon jour." “ Dieu vous benisse ce 
saint matin ! ” It is the adieux of departing merry- 
makers on the Church porch. Babette must fol- 
low. She moves dreamily after the village folk 
out to the Cherokees. 

In wide Easter, the Roses give odor . 



CHAPTER V. 


CY)zro\ez Roses. 


A great fair Dove swept out to the sea 
In Springtide of old, and o’er Arcadie 
From the white purity of his long wings. 

Did blossom wild Roses, chaste, sweet, snowy things, 
And rolled a snow sea, Dog Rose, Cherokee, 

O’er woodland and lea, Dog Rose, Cherokee. 

“The Holy of Holies thou shalt ever be, 

Of Nature, O! Arcadie, green Arcadie,” 

Sang Dove, “and earth’s children kneel here, Arcadie, 
In worship of Beauty; prithee, prithee.” 

And thus the snow sea, Dog Rose, Cherokee, 

O’er woodland and lea, in fair Arcadie. 


A purple quiet is on the rose glades. We 
stand in the heart of the Cherokees. Dim, shadowy 
lanes stretch vaguely purple in hyacinth light. To 
the north, and west, the Cherokees roll on and on, 
straight into the purple half tones of horizon. 
Dim heliotrope mist lies faint upon this rose sea. 
Eastward the river flows the tint of lilacs. The 
West is a great mass of Tyrian hues. And in the 
lanes between the roses, the shadows deepen to 
hyacinth. A purple light is on the land ; violet 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


4 1 

dew seems falling. Arcadian fire flies show silver 
twinklings. Down rose aisles, and beneath the 
bushes, wood violet unwinds her carpet ; every 
where glow worms shimmer on its folds, and 
gleam, and flicker until lost in distance. That 
solitary hut seems to rock upon a sea of bloom. 
The chimney smoke rises straight into air. The 
mud walls take on tinge of amethyst atmosphere. 
From iris sky shy stars look down on the river; 
little shooting white lights dart, and die upon 
purpling stream. Down yonder aisle come Babette 
and Pierrot. Roses are up to their elbows on 
either side ; fire flies thicken about their heads. 
Their garments seem to melt into the twilight; 
they look a vision of star time. The Arcadian 
sounds a pipe of cane from the riverside ; it is as 
the voice of Spring lifted up in the fields. The 
maiden listens spellbound. She has placed one 
hand upon his shoulder, the other holds back the 
hair from her forehead. Their faces are upturned 
to the stars and fire flies. 

Pierrot ceases. They walk rapidly to Mere 
Rose’s cottage. It is twilight now, the twilight 
that comes to the Cherokees. 

The evening is warm. Here in Mere Rose’s 
cottage the air is heavy with odor of pine cone 
fire in the open fire place. These strange perfumes 
are brewing herbs; the aroma is powerful, one 


42 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


gasps for breath. It is a love potion preparing. 
A lad of the Hamlet found his way here last 
nightfall, and this is the draught that will give 
him the love of the maiden, will make her whom 
he loves his own ; for, the witch woman gathered 
the roots by the light of the moon, at the hour 
when is heard the voice of the owl. It grows 
dusk. Through the arched opening in the mud 
wall we can see the outline of the other room of 
the hut, in soft tremulous gloom. The fire dies. 
There is a last vivid gleam and flicker. Weird 
things hang like fringe from the moth-eaten 
mantel ; we can see them now. Those objects are 
rabbit feet ; that pile of strange looking stones are 
buck-eyes. Dank weeds and sweet-smelling herbs 
dangle from cords stretched every where through 
the gathering night. Here is a pallet in this corner, 
with a homespun coverlet falling into decay. 
The tottering deal table, in the centre, has broken 
pottery upon it like that on the mantel. There is 
nothing more. The love philter is ready. Mere 
Rose leans to stir it, mumbling incantations. The 
door opens softly ; Babette and Pierrot are within. 
The crone feels their presence, rather than sees 
them, in the semi gloom. — Ah! it is her “young 
Saint”, her “Good Angel ”, her “White Rose”, 
her Friend ; — the only living creature in the world 
who cares for the Voodoo woman. She has come 
now with her wholesome food,— food, and Mere 


THE NkW PSYCHE. 


43 


Rose hungers. How gaunt the witch woman 
looks. She has been ill, ill almost to the death, 
but there is that upon her worse than death ; on 
soul and body is branded Desolation. It has 
blasted the great eyes in their glory and their evil. 
It has withered the full lips. Into the eyes has 
crept the gleam of the loveless, about the mouth 
has come a line that sears the all-forsaken. And 
the Voodoo is alone. There is no love for her; 
even her kin shun her. When the sun is high 
over the Cherokees, some love-embolden lad seeks 
her door, as on yester eve, buys a potion for his 
mistress, thrusting coin into her hand with gesture 
half loathing, half terror — and is gone. Now and 
then a slave from neighbouring plantation asks for 
a buck-eye to charm away rheumatism ; a rabbit 
tail to bring good luck, or a spider in a nut shell to 
warn off ague. That is all of her contact with 
humanity. She dares not go to the Hamlet, lest 
she be driven thence. Her race will not come to 
her, she would bring disease to their bodies, death 
to their offspring. Her glance is worm to the 
cotton field, and blight to the corn. She is the 
Voodoo woman. In health she exists on meagre 
pittance from sale of her witchcraft — alone. In 
illness she must starve — alone. It was thus last 
fall and winter; but Springtime came and with it 
a Maiden like the Spring, with yellow hair, and 
eyes that looked beneath the hair, like tulip-bells 


44 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


among May wheat fields. The witch woman’s 
distress has been less since Babette learned of it 
one day ; she has come many times since then ; she 
is come now. Mere Rose hears the movement, 
and peers eagerly through the dusk: — 

“Ah ! Mere de Dieu ! — you have come, the sweet 
saints bless you, you have food ; you are a bright 
angel. Mere Rose was sick ; she was like to die ; 
she has hungered ; there was no bread, no bread, — 
you are a holy saint” — 

“Nay, Mere, the good saints are with God. 
See! this is gruel, you must eat, then you will be 
strong. And here is Pierrot; he sorrows for you, 
and would come that he might aid you. You 
must eat”. 

“Ha! mon Jesus! Mere Rose will eat”. She 
has clutched at the food, almost snatched it. There 
is a burning torrent of gratitude, her benedictions 
are fierce. 

Pierrot would calm her, he has spoken twice: — 

“Peace ! we do little, Mere. We are not rich, we 
are poor and can do but little ; we want no 
thanks — nay” — wild words break from Mere 
Rose — “ for thanks we will hear our fate ; when 
you have eaten you may read Babette’s.” 

She is silenced, famine is sharp, it masters her. 
She is conscious only of its cravings, and eats 
almost savagely. The food is gone. Again she 
mumbles benedictions ; they are less wild ; she is 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


45 


more human now that starvation has gone from 
her. The dusk has deepened. Spring night folds 
into the room. Youth and maiden speak low to 
the witch woman ; Mere Rose makes answer in 
whispers ; the calm and the wonder of the gather- 
ing hush is about and within them. Nature 
moulds our being. Earth’s inspirations make us 
what we are and ivill be. From a daisy may 
spring a mind bloom that out-stars Hesperus ; and 
on a bird note be heard a music thought that will 
sing eternal in the chant of Mind. The three 
forms move toward the transparent square that 
shows pale light where the lattice is. A broad 
moonray cleaves the still gloom. They seem to 
float in it. Babette’s hair has caught a white 
nimbus ; she holds out the rose in her hand ; the 
beam falls full upon it making it brim with light 
and gleam out in the dim like a fate star. 

Mere Rose’s form is sharply defined. The 
figure is crooked. The old red gown shrinks 
from the shrivelled limbs in rags. The blanched 
hair escapes from the bandana. The blighted 
breasts wither away from the tatters ; their dusk- 
ness shows a scar, whose white lips were torn by 
the infant she bore to the husband of her youth. 
Those days her locks were as black as the crow’s 
wing. Then her Antoine died. Mere Rose wept. 
Famine came, and a night when the babe starved 
on the parched bosom : —the morrow — white as the 


4 6 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


cotton bolls was the hair of Rose Gabet. She weeps 
no more ; her tears were dried up with her milk. 
Upon her now, there is something of dawning 
tenderness, mingled with the piercing glance of 
her race. 

Babette’s face is turned upward ; the light 
flows over it. Her whole attitude is rest, the 
curves of her figure, peace. 

Pierrot bends eagerly forward, there is more of 
anxiety in his pose ; of wistfulness, and a gleam 
akin to fear in the clear tones of his eyes. 

The witch woman chants indistinctly. — She has 
taken the rose, and is plucking the leaves ; they 
fall like great pearls through the moonray, and 
lie dim, and white in the neutral tones of the 
room. — Babette and Pierrot bend lower still. — Ah ! 
Mere Rose is nearly through — the fortune will be 
fair. She has ceased ; the last leaf floats pale 
through semi-gloom. The woman holds the rose 
stem to view, — those are dark spots upon the 
calyx, and — a worm at the heart! 

Mere Rose is saying in low monotonous mono- 
tone : — 

“ The rose 1 s heart is gone. There is no sweetness, 
no beauty. The rose says this. There is a great light j 
and over a lake of beams two forms come floating. The 
waves bear them together. It is a youth and a maid. 
The maid has hair like the sta/s , and the hair of the 
youth is like the red winter sun. They meet — they melt 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


47 


into each other , — two yet one — one yet two. And they 
are happy as the blessed are happy. There comes a 
greater Light wrapped in a cloud ; it floats towards 
them slowly ; it hovers over the maiden; it descends 
upon her , it bears her away. I hear a great cry! It 
is the voice of the youth; he cannot follow , he stretches 
out his arms; he is alone; he cannot see the Light , only 
the cloud; he wanders up and down. Now there 
grows a brightness afar, the darkness will move, the 
glory will come again - and his Beloved. It descends 
once more, — stay — he must wait , and ” 

Mere Rose can see no more, she strains into 
the darkness like one who walks in sleep. The 
weird mutterings die into half sigh, half moan. — 
She is exhausted, and sinks upon the chair in 
trance-like sleep. Babette and Pierrot steal 
silently out into the opaline night. The hour 
seems conscious. 

Each heart stir is but a passage in Feeling’s 
wide Apocalypse, the heard rythm of Being’s 
song-like flow. Desire is truer than substance. 
Dreams are facts. Within us is the Kingdom. 

A slight breeze from the West flits over the 
Gherokees ; the Roses tremble . 


CHAPTER VI. 


The Bridegroom’s Footfalls. 


’Twas thus in Time’s dim morn : — 
The young Soul opes wide its arms 
A Soul therein to clasp; 

And lo! but mocking shadows lie 
Enfolded in its grasp. 

And dear Soul sorrows on. 


Night unveils. Moon in third quarter floats up 
sensitive zenith. A star burns green on east horn 
as torch at the gates of Celestial City. Moon and 
star hang glimmering in violet ether. Field and 
Cherokees are mirrors at the touch of dews, and 
shine back moon and star. A beam shaft lies 
obliquely on the river. It falls keen upon the 
cattle group on the left bank. They are Jerseys 
and Guernseys. And the lamp of glow-worm 
pales. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 49 

Babette and the Arcadian have reached the 
waterside. For the first time Babette speaks: 

“ What can it mean, Pierrot? We must love 
always, and yet the cloud, the waiting.” 

“ Ma Mignonne , it is nothing. The old Mere is 
ill. She has famished, and famine breeds strange 
fancies. We will not heed” — wistfully — “we will 
not remember.” 

He cannot reassure her. The awe of the old 
Faith is with both, and the consciousness of Truth. 
All suns cast shadow ; they stand in the shadow of 
the Sun . — 

“We love, Babette” — 

“Hush! Pierrot, listen! It may be that Mere 
Rose is right ; the Spirits speak with her and they 
have wisdom. Once Mon Pere St. Cyr read from 
the Golden Legend, of a Virgin who loved her 
Betrothed, but might not wed with him. They 
were one, for Love is One ; but they could not 
reach each other. It was as though an invisible 
curtain were let down between them. When 
they would cling together, the Unseen held them 
back. Its voices would cry “ Waic”. The Virgin 
prayed — and died. The Lover lived on a little 
while, — then died and went to the Beloved ; 
and then, the Legend says, was Love made per- 
fect. I could not understand, but now it comes 
to me. When my hands are in yours, I feel 
that I do not touch you. When you are nearest 


5 ° 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


to me, I would have you nearer — there is the 
Veil. And, Pierrot, I love you, and you love 
me. It seems my love is like the Cherokees 
that every day unfold a richer odor. I go to sleep 
at dusk and think I love, but when I wake next 
morning, my love has so much sweeter grown, I 
whisper, that was not love I felt last night, but 
this. And thus it is when nightfall comes again, 
and morrow ; still I say, this is love, and this ; and 
now — I feel I never loved till now, and yet — ” 

They stand on the chaste edge of the shaft of 
light. It looks an upbroadening pathway; they 
walk therein. — New Jerusalem unbars her seven- 
fold gates. Spirit awakening in pass of the affec- 
tions, mounts, widening into Being. The still 
radiance of the night informs the maiden’s speech, 
half dream. She continues: 

“ This must be love, Pierrot, it is so great, so 
strange”. 

Her voice falls to a whisper. The embrace of 
the Arcadian is about her. It is the first caress, 
of Eucharistic meaning; young fruitage of the 
Heart’s Hesperides. Corn flower rests upon Corn 
flower; field mouse caresses its mate. Pierrot is 
speaking as if continuing her reverie : — 

ll Cherie , and the Rose is sweet. We cannot 
tell why, or at what hour it found its sweetness; 
we only know it is a Rose. I love you, I cannot 
tell how greatly, or when it came, or how. I only 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


51 

know I love. I think it was with me in the Bayou 
des Arcadiens, only I could not give it name until 
I came and found )ou Love, my Love” — and their 
lips met in the first kiss, chaste double Lily of 
mingled Souls; outward bloom of inward Sacra- 
ment. Hare-bell touches hare-bell in swaying 
meadow grass. Sweet breathed kine in pastures 
lean their necks upon each other. 

Night grows silent with swift change of the 
region from bright to dark. Sudden clouds dull 
the moon sheen. The mocking-birds hush when 
she darkens. It is the tear-like gloom of stars. 
Youth and maiden are saddened, half fearful — a 
deer stands shy upon a mountain side. Afar, 
faint echoes of the horn sound throughout the 
vales. — 

All joys are as rays from one Joy, proceeding 
thence, and returning to it’s Bosom. The wider 
and deeper the Joy, the nearer we draw to the 
Sun of Gladness. 

Joy is Beauty; the Way of the Beautiful, men 
call — Death. 

The Rose of Desire, budding through the gen- 
eral heart, blooms only on the Hills of Trans- 
figuration. 

And night is silent. Spring deepens. In the 
groves of Cherokees the Roses mature. 


CHAPTER VII. 


The Spirit of the Spring. 


All Beauty dwells within each heart, 
And there alone is found. 

But seek, O! Man, thyself aright, 
And Heav’n will bud around. 


The night is beautiful. Spring flings wide her 
countless portals ; they make music as they swing. 
It comes to us in rush of leaves, haste of waters, 
crowding of grasses. Stars shed sparks from lips 
of light. Full moon looks down on river; full 
moon looks back from the waters. It is as May 
of earth to eternal May, a shadow. Spring matures 
and pours wine from her myriad blossom cups. 
Low in western horizon lingers carnation flush, as 
though “Beautiful Spring” breathed through 
Spring of Arcadia. Hosts of wild blooms crush 
and bruise each other in hedge and meadow ; every 
wound weeps odor. Anon, there are cries of 
fledglings from innumerable nests ; they are restless 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


53 


now and would try their young wings beneath the 
moon. I hear the voice of sleepless mother to 
youngling that would wander, it knows not where. 
I hear the bleating of ewe unto folded lamb: it is 
impatient of sleep, and would sport in unrest of 
awakening life. Night breathes creative power. 
Around us circles strong life. The great Spring 
glitters with clear Being. Venus trembles into 
atoms, and sinks resolved into Desire into the 
heart of man. 

Here is the Hall of the Hamlet. It casts oblong 
shadow out on the river in the light of the great 
moon. The rear of the building looks on brink 
of stream ; this is the front on the village street. 
There is but one story; the logs in the roof peer 
unevenly over the sides, they are jagged and loose 
joined. There is no whitewash, and still a pine 
odor. The place is low to the ground, it is but 
one step to the big door. School is held here, and 
Catechism class on Sabbaths, and the village 
dances. It is the last day of the week now, and 
the hour of Saturday night’s festivity. The row 
of earthen lamps sway merrily, and twinkle as the 
rafters are shaken by the dancers. The scene is 
gleesome ; one’s feet dance of themselves to the 
tune. Blithe Pere Amboise was fiddler when the 
old Gran’ Meres on that bench were maidens like 
Jeanne and Oliska. They are nodding now, their 
white caps keep time to the music. Gay Pere 


54 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


Amboise! — he sits on the great chair under niche 
of the Patron Saint of the Hamlet. To the folk 
are equally dear, the Pere, and the good Saint 
Denis. Here the shuffling feet! What quaint 
courtesy Julie makes her partner. He is Alcide, 
son of Henri the Miller. They are King and 
Queen tonight. Always there is the Saturday night 
ball in New Arcadia; and always there is a King 
and Queen of the Ball. When it is over the Queen 
will choose a lad and dance with him, and he will 
be King next time. And the King will choose a 
maiden in this way also, and she will be Queen 
when Saturday comes again. It has been thus 
since the pioneers dwelt by La Belle Riviere. The 
door at the far end of the Hall, opposite Pere 
Antoine leads to the kitchen. Someone has 
opened it. Smell savory Gumbo! Mere Cecile is 
brewing it. Mere Cecile is a Creole and came 
from New Orleans. There is no ball in New 
Arcadia without Gumbo. Then there is coffee 
for the young folks, and gooseberry wine for their 
elders. 

Now housewives strain their crimson bodices as 
they bend in time with the music. The maidens 
are flushed, they have on fete day gowns, and 
each wears in her hair the flower that best becomes 
her. They bend in the courtesy, the scene is like 
spring field that wind blows over. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


55 


Babette and Pierrot stand apart from the revel- 
lers. Now they pass from the dancing hall into 
the night. Moon quivers down on grass which 
flows in blossom waves on which they seem to 
float. Mists are as veils shutting them into great 
Eden. The chaste alone may walk with Adam. 
The pure spirit is the new Eve. Thousand armed 
glory of Spring is about them ; each arm holds 
forth lustrous blooms. The bright stream of their 
love seems to bubble and leap and sparkle. It is 
as though the Past had been destroyed, and all 
were fresh and young. Love is the only reality. 
Some notes from Pere Amboise float towards 
them ; and now each heart gives back the other’s 
tones with sweetness of an echo. Both are say- 
ing — “ It is good to be here.” And Pierrot: — “I 
would be with you, away from them all, alone.’’ 
“And I.” 

“ It is sweet, and I could wish it always so. 
You remember, Ma petite Mignonne , how I found 
you in the meadow with the Spring. Sometimes 
I dream we wander through green pastures, hand 
in hand, and bind ourselves with wild bud gar- 
lands, and follow the Spring over the field. We 
hear callow birds, and drink of young streams, 
and walk in new light. We seem to die with 
Spring, the blue sky over us, and our arms about 
each other on the sweet grass, only to wake and 


56 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


live again the life of the meadows”. He pauses, 
full of the joy and beauty of the image ; again; 
less dreamily: — 

“ I like my life, Cherie ; I love to hoe among the 
corn, and to labor in the rice fields. But as I toil, 
I have such thoughts at times; they come to me 
with my love. Speak to me, ma peiite angelej tell 
me, would you like it if it might be so”, — falter- 
ingly, — “would you go with me away from them 
all — alone?” 

The answer is shy, half breathed. — 

“ I cannot tell, it is so beautiful, but I cannot 
tell. There is Gran’Mere, and the pea-flowers, 
and the birds that come for their breakfast, and 
the Madonna in the garden. The birds would be 
hungry, the flowers would die”. — 

The rings upon her forehead stir in the close 
breath of the Arcadian ; their spirits touch as wings 
of Angels touch , — her words are soundless: — 

“ I will go with you, — away”. 

“ Hear me, Babette ; we may not wander, but 
we may dwell together. Ah, Mignonne, say that 
you will come to me some day. I have built my 
dwelling by the water mill. I have dreamed that 
you might come. I have brought robin nests 
there ; the birds are singing. I have planted my 
vine ; it is in flower. Mignonne, Mignonne, say 
that you will come to me”. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


57 


Again the maiden makes answer: — 

“You are my Prince. I will follow you.” 

And they stand in the white betrothal hour. 
Around is the great hymen of the groves. Spring 
consummates the bridals of the dells. 

New brightness is upon them. They pass into 
the Real out of shadows. Undefinedly, both are 
conscious of moral clearness, of mental growth. 
The Lover is the Saint, regenerated by new 
Baptism unto grace. Not alone of waters* but of 
the Spirit, which is Love , must the heart be born 
again, “ that ye may have life in you.’’ And 
'henceforth he treads Imperial Way of intellectual 
Power; for whoso hath Love, Reason anoints 
king-like with her chrism. 

Softly, and as one, the Lovers reach their arms 
out to each other. Field Lily twines about her 
spouse beneath Spring stars. 

Pierrot’s voice scarcely rises above voices of 
earth : — 

“ Mon dme, no other love was like to this; this 
only is love.” 

Babette’s is lost upon the night chant: — ‘‘Only 
this, Pierrot, is love.” 

Keen yearning is born within them towards 
every brother, and to all things. In this rose hour 
of life, doth great Soul embrace Creation, moving 
along its triune streams, and informed with the 


58 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


wide tenderness of Paradise. It speaks with all 
loveliness, and with Art. Art is Love, the Lover 
the Artist, one with its Essence. 

The Arcadian is urged by promptings of his 
love and of the time. He draws down the branches 
of the Myrtle, — he makes them into a wreath, — he 
places it upon the brow of the maiden. — The 
nesting bird brings offering to his mate. 

Their hearts have wings of flame that bear 
them through all the loosened Spring. And in this 
night of Joy the great Heart of all seems palpable 
and burning. As when he spake by evening 
waters, once more doth the youth give speech to 
the vast Jubilee. 

He murmureth : — “It is beautiful, — the world, — 
our love. Our life will be beautiful.” 

The response, clear as gathering dews: — 

“ Beautiful, my Spouse ” — wide murmur of 
leaves makes answer unto winds. These are 
known to Arcadian Spring; rising keen, with a 
chill as of winter, though in Cherokee hedges the 
Roses are perfect. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“ five Maria. 


O Love! O Desire! Thy ministries 
How dear, thou Warden of the Dawn, 
Sweet Death! Its fires cast upon 
Thy brow pure glooms, — rain bow- wise, 
Mild Azraei of New Paradise, 

And tender as the arc of beams, ~ 

Thou dost link the life that sesrns. 
Together with the Life that is. 


The dance hall is still ; no sound. The move- 
ment of feet has ceased. The laughter is hushed. 
The jest is hushed. Pere Amboise leans his brow 
on the mute instrument ; his white hairs trail over 
the strings. No sound. Ninette’s voice is silent. 
Dancers kneel, where they stood up for the dance. 
Pere St. Cyr is in the midst — their father. He 
has spoken: — “My children, there is ill news. I 
would not have another bear it, lest he should do 
so harshly. You have faith, and you will not 


6o 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


fear. Our Father, le bon Dieu will test our love: 
ihe Great Scourge hath appeared in the parish of St. 
Landry. It is at our door ! Let us pray.” 

No horror, no dread, no tumult, only trust. The 
Father cares for the lilies and clothes them ; they, 
His children, are dearer to Him than bird or lily ; 
they pray. The Arcadian’s life, the Arcadian’s 
love, the Arcadian’s refuge, the Arcadian’s rest is 
prayer, always prater. 

A voice steals clear and low through the hall. 
It has note of widowed dove: — 

“ Beloved, my Beloved” — it finds its calm in 
“Ave Maria.” — 

Babette and Pierrot rejoin the folk of the Ham- 
let ; the voice is the voice of the maiden. They 
have peace. There is no sound. The heart that 
loves, itself a part of the All Beautiful, hath un- 
consciously no fear of change, its Christ-like res- 
urrection ; for in Law of Decay is Beauty most 
beauteous. Birth and Death, garner and waste, 
are one. And of all Being is Death the marriage 
bed. 

Sacred dew of Mon Pere’s benediction descends 
on the hearts of his children ; without, the dew of 
Spring rains holily down on the meadows. White 
night moths flit beneath young constellations ; and 
between them, upward and upward, new Area- 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


6 1 


dia’s guardian Spirits rise viewlessly upward, 
bearing to Great White Throne their petition. 
Within the beam of its fires, mutely the Hamlet’s 
patron, the great St. Denis, prays for Arcadia, 
and prays. 

Earthward, chill winds pass over the Cherokees : 
the Roses tremble. 



CHAPTER IX. 


The Golden Gates. 


I hear Joy ! Joy ! ’tis clear aring 
Through Heart and field, and tomb. 
From perish’d blossom of to-day, 
The fragrant Easters bloom. 

Upon the moulding Lily’s lip 
Delight doth sit and sing. 

Human Heart that melts to clay, 
Fading leaf, do bear ahvay. 

The furl’d gladness of the May,— 

All form, and Spirit’s Spring. 


Spring passes on. The Cherokees lie likewhite 
marriage garland across the land. There came a 
day when freed moth sprang joyously from chrys- 
alis into air, with manifold shining flutter. Life’s 
sweet laughter rang through empty cradles of the 
field. And was earth made glad, and smiled with 
child glee into May. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


63 


And Spring passed on. Scented grass blooms 
pinked and paled, and fell in creamy dust into re- 
curring Spring, with all the humming, wooing life 
within them. Happy daisies drank deeply of the 
Sun, and poured their gold into the Aprils that 
will be. Red corn flowers then appeared and 
passed into the rosy sunsets of next Vernal time. 
Each Spring seems fairer than that gone before, 
even with the hoarded fairness of many Springs. 
And each season, man, with his accumulating 
years, stands nearer to Beauty, and hears more 
plainly the heart throbs of the Spring of Springs. 
The aged is Priest, old age Life’s Priesthood. 
Afar and near, over hill, through pasture land, 
along roadside, over meadow, down footpath, 
clover crept song-wise, making fair the new Ar- 
cadia, and fair the hearts of her children. 

And Spring passed on. 

And now the red and white clover blooms, 
atwinkle through the meadows, go out like stars. 
The hum of the bee is heard down the pastures, 
and new honey is golding in the farmers’ hives. 
And now young corn rises pale in sheath, as Vir- 
gin robed in her beauteous hair. The orchards 
have snowed their pink and white snows, and fruit 
hangs green on parent boughs ; for is all Promise 
fulfilled, and Beauty, made Life, clings timidly to 
breast of the Great Mother. The loves of sky 
and field, and stream have waxed and waned, rosy 


64 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


circles within circle of encompassing Love, — the 
Spring. And now the Spring hath hectic flush ; 
a rosier glow blossoms out in the sunsets ; blooms 
of early woods are sweet with perfume that is 
Death. And the death-bed is thurible whence 
Life’s odor arises. Therein, Virtue spends its 
sweets, and affection is as spices. For Spirit 
draws anear her fragrant East, and breathes its 
musk, in last moments, earthward. 

See! where earth and sunset mingle, two birds 
meet awing! They show bright against the hori- 
zon. Oriole takes from Robin silver note of 
Spring, and flings it far, in gold of Summer song. 
The tune falls spray-like on the fields. 

Early comes Arcadian summer, lending its rest 
to the Mays, oftimes to the Aprils, of the Parish 
of Point Coupee. And while Peace deepened 
down on the meadows, and days grew longer, and 
brighter, there was toil in the Olende Cottage. 
Toil to the sound of spindle and loom, of singing 
hearts and voices, — the labor that is grace; for, 
when May apple comes to the hedges, there will 
dawn a great day for Babette and Pierrot, and a 
maiden’s wardrobe must be ready. And Spring 
passes on, and pass the days of the Arcadian 
lovers. 

And now there is to be a wedding. It will be 
in this month of the Virgin, and on Sabbath, such 
the old Arcadian custom. The trousseau is 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


65 


finished; the last stocking is knit; the last roll of 
homespun linen, woven by Babette herself, in the 
years she waited for her Prince, is made into 
garments as white as the heart of the little bride. 
They have brought to her the marriage portion 
bequeathed by Julien Poydras. Good Julien 
Poydras was the parish benefactor, and that of all 
south Louisiana. He it was who gave name to 
Poydras Street in New Orleans. He was a native 
of France, the first delegate to Congress from 
Louisiana after its transfer to the United States, 
and the first emancipator of slaves in the Union. 
In 1824 he went to his rest in St. Francis church- 
yard, leaving by testament the sums of $30,000 
each to the parishes of Point Coupee, and West 
Baton Rouge, the interest of which to be yearly 
divided among the brides of the two parishes. He 
died possessor of 338 slaves in Point Coupee and 
West Baton Rouge. And Babette’s dowry bought 
a good milch cow, and kitchen utensils, and sweet 
warm blankets for winter. 

They all wait for her in the little home by the 
lake-stream — Pierrot’s home, — but she hardly 
knows of them ; she has never thought of them 
at all, only of her Prince, the Prince of her 
dreams and day visions. He was to come to her ; 
he has come ; she will go away with him, — that is 
all. The feeling is as impersonal as Grace. She 


66 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


does not love him, Pierrot, but the love that is in 
him. He is the embodiment of a Decree, the 
incarnation of a Truth. Her strength has paled with 
the passing of weeks. The light within her burns 
brighter. Beauty clothes her. The body’s fairness 
is the Lotus that blooms upon Love’s Nile-like 
waters. She is being absorbed into Life. Form 
is becoming all spirit, and spirit clothing in form. 
She feels the Heaven about her; there is a smile 
upon her lips as though they tasted sweetness. 
Gran’ mere has sighed, and wiped away great tears 
these many times, for Babette is as a rose that 
must fade ; or a beautiful day that must pale into 
twilight. Her dreams have entered into her; she 
has become as a dream to others. 

This afternoon she is alone. Gran’mere Olende 
has gone to the Hamlet to sit with old Mere 
Decoux who is ill, and will not return until the 
moon is high on La Belle Riviere. Babette is 
glad to be alone. Weariness is upon her; languor 
has been gaining all day. Twice or thrice this 
warm forenoon, the snowy linen fell from 
her hand, as she aided Marie Olende to pack the 
little square trunk that Pierrot will take to her 
new home on the morrow — her wedding day. 
When the old dame asked in sorrow, what ailed 
her, she said — 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


67 

“I am weary Gran’ mere. Last night I dreamed 
much, I will rest early this evening.” And the 
old fond peasant remembered that she herself had 
fainted away upon the eve of her wedding morn, 
and thought how her own mere, the good Lisette, 
had related that she [Lisette] had also been found 
ill upon her marriage day, in 1727, when, on the 
site of Rose Hamlet stood only the homes of the 
Gossarands and the Decoux, whose children were 
the first whites baptized in the parish. — Scarcely 
a score of years before, La Belle Riviere, the 
river-lake of the parish of Point Coupee, was 
still an arm of the Mississippi, having not, as yet, 
been cut off from the main stream by Bienville, 
who, to facilitate commerce, changed the bed of 
the great river where it made this detour. — And 
Gran’mere murmurs “It is always the same with 
young brides — always the same,” and goes her 
way to the village telling her Aves. Allwhere 
Spring is in early decline. Allwhere come apace, 
the thousand footfalls of gold-sandaled June. 
And in waning Spring, and waxing Summer, 
Nature alike rejoices with boundless delight, for 
do Life and Death fulfil their mission, and “enter 
into the joy of the Lord.” 

The Cherokees grow dim in the hedges; the 
Roses droop. 


CHAPTER X. 


Tl)e Regret of Sprir)g. 


On the edge of green June pastures. Spring glanced the meadows 
o’er. 

Fain unto Love to offer one fairest blossom more. 

May blooms all hung paling, but on her dewy bed, 

Lo! Amaranth with blushes a rosy glow did shed. 

Straight, Spring plucked this, and turning unto him she lov’d, 
would give. 

He speaketh at her gesture: “Sweet, who weareth this must 
live 

Henceforth with Gods.” She answered, “Know Death is Life— 
’tis best.” 

And drawing thence the sacred Thorn that in his glowing breast— 

By old Desire implanted— doth live and hurt alway, 

She bound the wound a-bleeding, with the holy bloom straight- 
way. 


The afternoon is sweet and still. Babette stands 
motionless within the Cottage. Joy permeates 
her being as an odor; her emotion is as incense 
stealing through mind and vein, bearing away 
self consciousness upon its folds. A light breaks 
upon her features; the smile is not sunny, but as 
moongleam on clear waters. She moves towards 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


69 


the lattice, looks timidly down still lanes; glances 
hastily backward into the chamber, Yes, Bab- 
ette, you are quite alone ; there is no one to see, 
no one to know ; for the nearest neighbor is old 
Pere Thomas who has been lame a score of years 
last Michaelmas, and two miles of La Belle 
Riviere are between his home and Gran’mere’s 
cottage. She approaches the great chest, leans 
low over it; now there is a white mass in her 
arms; those are the bridal things, the veil and the 
marriage gown. She clothes herself in them ; she 
would look her fairest for her bridegoom, and 
would learn how fair that may be. There is to 
be a white rose wreath on the morrow ; Pierrot 
will rise at dawn and pluck the roses with the dew 
upon them. The veil enfolds her like mist; it 
gleams silver in the ray of the setting sun. The 
maiden looks a white robed Spouse of the Lamb. 
And ever is Bride the Ark of Covenant, within 
whose bosom dwells graven Sinai. Let whoso 
would approach, be sealed a Moses with sweet 
ointment of the chaste. Babette would look upon 
herself; she cannot see, there is no mirror ; she 
remembers the river. Then too, she yearns for 
the cool touch of the stream. All forenoon she has 
yearned to be out beneath the sky, to lie down on 
the grass. Earth’s fairness draws her unto itself. 
Love seeks Nature, its interpretation. The Lover 
abides by wold and waters ; for is Love, light and 


7 ° 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


odor, color and song, their significance and cause. 
She steals down the yard path to the river brink, 
and leans towards the waters. The reflection is 
vivid. Maiden looks upon maiden. Babette 
starts ; she is fair, but the image looks strangely. She 
trembles and passes her hand over her brow with 
gesture of physical pain. The old weariness re- 
turns, gaining strength. She wishes vaguely for 
Gran’mere. The forms of the Golden Legend are 
moving and crowding about her; there are the 
Virgins with palm branches, the martyrs crowned 
with red wreaths, with them the saints, the gob- 
lins and spirits of evil. The flowers sway towards 
her, speaking with voices like songs; and above 
all voices comes Voice of Spring’s Regret'. — it 
sings an undertone in every field ; it makes sweet 
moan in heart of man. 

And to the maiden, the murmurs grow indis- 
tinct, far withdrawn, and faint as notes of the 
Melodious Life that sound alwhere the Desire of 
Spring. — She has fainted lightly. — 

“Babette, Babette! Where is ma Filleule, ma 
Rose?” Hark! that is the voice of Pere St. Cyr. 
The Pore has borne the White Host through the 
meadows to the dying. The tinkling of his aco- 
lyte’s bell fell on the fields like dew, and the 
flowers stirred as though a mild sun were passing. 
He returns to the Hamlet by way of the Olende 
farm. He always does this when he may, for 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


7 1 

well he loves to bless his child in grace. She does 
not haste to meet him ; ill has befallen. It has 
been her wont to give him welcome ever since the 
day they found her in the Cherokees ; when a 
wee maiden, she would grasp the tall flowers by 
the pathway to aid her onward. He catches 
glimpse of white robe ; he goes forward a few 
paces; now pauses in great wonderment near the 
stirless figure. Babette’s face is turned from him ; 
her form rests against young apple boughs. Pere 
St. Cyr calls softly, he fears to startle her: — 

“ Babette ! Babette! ” 

She arouses. With returning thought her being 
flushes with virgin shame, that Mon Pere should 
behold her in her marriage gown before her mar- 
riage day; it is as angel maid might blush who 
dreamed her holy brow was kissed by son of earth. 
She draws the bride veil around her, and would 
hasten from his sight, but the old habit of the 
faith prevails; she bows her head for the blessing 
of Pere St. Cyr. 

And the late Spring is glad, though throughout 
the hedges of the Cherokee, in closing afternoon, 
the Roses fade. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Rail! Sacred Light! 


Straight into the carmine 
West scuds gray Owl on muffled wing. Faintly 
On the dim sound footfalls of Evening Star. 
Tossing high Holy Chalice of the gloom. 

He scatters stars and fireflies. Twilight is. 


Mon Pere’s hands are laid on Babette’s head. 
He stands erect, his eyes upraised to the iris sky. 
Light from out of the west plays upon the river, it 
has become a prism, and in the radiance Babette’s 
gold hair burns out, and Mon Pere’s locks and 
beard gleam like snow that falls in moonlight. 
The bride dress glimmers ; and the maiden’s form 
takes on glory of the luminance around. The 
voice of Pere St. Cyr rises in invocation ; it is as 
though he were master singer in the cloister of 
Evening, and led the late Spring’s ‘‘ Bene die h/s” 
He ceases; his blessing lies upon the twilight as 
robe of the Man of Galilee on Plane tree of the 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


desert. Babette has risen ; Mon Pere bends over 
her, he would touch the brow of his daughter in 
Baptism with consecrated lips ; they would press 
the accustomed kiss upon it, even as they touch 
vessels of the Sacrifice. There are rings upon her 
forehead — golden angels at entrance of chapel — 
he removes them to give the caress — swift horror 
shudders through his body, the strong frame is 
shaken. In this dim half light Babette scarcely 
sees his emotion, but feels its intensity , the pres- 
ence of strange dread. Now the tremor of Mon 
Pere’s hand upon her brow thrills her with new 
terror. She gives mute appealing look upward, 
it is the look of the lamb upon the death knife; 
she utters no sound, no question. Pere St. Cyr 
gazes dumbly upon her. He is still ; it is the re- 
pose of supreme emotion. His soul and life seem 
passing out in intense vision. 

Not the span of a moment has passed ; it seems 
hours, such seconds are heart eternities. His face 
is beautiful with the beauty of the Trinity ; dread 
and anguish sweep over it unto peace, the Spirit 
overshadows him, but his lips move with the human 
suffering. A moment passes, his gaze is unrelaxed ; 
a pale upraised scar shows on Babette' s forehead. His 
soul finds voice: — 

“ The Plague ! The Plague ! ” 


74 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


With low moan the maiden bends towards him ; 
mild shadows close again about her ; the old 
Priest folds the virgin form unto his bosom, stand- 
ing motionless with his burden. His lips move 
soundless. Moments pass. His spirit is in 
Gethsemane; and now with Him who plead 
beneath Syrian Olives, comes once more the cry 
of the human : — 

“ St. Denis protect thy people ; holy Agnes save 
this maiden — thou canst stay it Father ; mon Dieu ! 
The Plague ! The Plague ! " 

The old man moves not, he would speak with 
his Master. Moments pass. Night grows upon 
the river. Dew comes on silver feet across the 
meadows, hanging a tear of the great God upon 
the blossoms of Arcadia. Silence deepens. 
Beauty’s thousand tongues seem hushed in awe of 
the Beautiful, and the pathos and mystery of its 
earthly doom. For doth it form with Love, the 
great Rose chain that encircles all created Being, 
whose clasp is Heart of God, and whose links are 
tuned to perfect sympathy. When aught of Love 
or Beauty suffers, or is glad, as fine electric fire, 
the smile or sigh, thrill the chain unto its limits, 
and men are glad or sad, they know not why. 
Moments pass, Pere St. Cyr stirs not. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


75 


Joy abides by field and stream, but in the still- 
ness one hears the flutter of Cherokee petals, 
shaken earthward from their stems. Allwhere 
Spring furls her white banner. Shroud-like, and 
drooping, it enfolds the Priest and the maiden. 
The hedges move faintly; the Roses fall. 



CHAPTER XII. 


Tfye Marriage Beautiful. 


Iris of twain human loves, 

In earthly waters born ; 
Marriage opes above the stream. 
Through the Eternal Morn. 


Pere St. Cyr looks wistfully around ; he is thor- 
oughly aroused now, and would cry out with a 
great cry. None can hear, there is no aid. His 
glance falls upon the bench by the river edge ; 
Babette loves it, it is her resting place ; he lays 
her thereon ; there is no choice, and water is at 
hand, — he must have water. The maiden lies like 
a dead lily; she is pale, and as coldly pure as the 
river bloom the old man tears from its stem in his 
extremity to serve as a cup to give her drink. The 
swoon is deep. Mon Pere laves her forehead from 
the stream ; there are no resources at hand ; he 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


77 


kneels, bends low over the virgin form, the stream 
lily in his hand dripping waters upon her fore- 
head. The river flows utterly blue ; the ether is 
clear as Eye of God, and reveals pulsing half 
light, beautiful and quick, presaging the birth of 
stars ; to westward one gold cloud flows out to 
sunset. Rose fire still burns along the horizon ; 
the landscape lies in quivering dusk, sentient 
flame-like gloom, the consecration of the after- 
glow. Day is on its Tabor, and the gold cloud 
drifts out to sunset. The day is dead. 

Babette stirs slightly ; the Priest casts the lily on 
the waters, listens breathlessly. Again there is 
movement, — a moth falls fluttering down upon 
her breast, gasping out its life ; it was born with 
this day’s sun, — it must follow it, — the day is dead. 

There is half returning consciousness. Her lids 
upraise quiveringly. Mon Pbre looks into her 
eyes; it is enough, — a fiat lies therein; upon her 
brow hath been set a seal. The maiden’s life will 
go out in the shadow of her dread. She knows of 
her passing; the knowledge is indistinct and form- 
less, less knowledge than sensation. Her mind 
wanders amid sweet fields of her virgin life and 
love. There is no pain. Peace dwells within her 
bosom. Like Agnes whom she loves, in ecstasy, 
in soft half trance, she looks upon the Beautiful 
by the great light within her; her spirit doth as- 


7 S 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


cend the white heights where Rest abides. The 
soul lifts up the Body, as the Body lifts up the 
Soul, and upon the Hills all is calm and clear. One 
feels the Christ around ; the other Heaven touches 
this. The old Priest bends closely to the virgin ; 
her lips form words. 

“Pierrot she told us, Mere Rose who lives 

by the Cherokees the rose with the worm at its 

heart; the great cloud comes to me; it bears me 

away you will follow soon. — I see it, Pierrot, 

the Great Spring where our Spring goes when it 

dies upon the meadows, the stars speak of 

it, hear! ” 

There is a pause, breath will not come. Mon 
P&re would soothe her; she struggles faintly, and 
resumes : — 

“There are joy flowers with eyes of stars, dim 
myrtle groves that are always green. The skies 
are bluer than the skies of earth, the rivers sweeter 
than our meadow streams. But the bliss is not of 
these. There are bare white hearts with the song 
of singing birds within them, and the snow-like 
souls with the fragrance of the odor flowers. 
And do the forms float centreward unto one 
Presence, whose face I do not see. And there 
are mated hearts, for they have bride-veil on, and 
they are fairer than the other fair ones because of 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


79 


human love . It will be thus with me you will 

come, my Prince, my Beautiful, I could not dwell 
— alone. ” 

The lilies fold upon the stream, sinking one by 
one beneath the waters ; the short river ripples 
sound in the stillness. The broken bloom drifts 
westward, a snowy speck. The fires burn low 
upon the horizon ; the gold cloud floats out unto 
the sunset. 

Life flows from her. A faint blue tinge steals 
mist-like over the maiden’s form ; it is as pearl 
revealed through seas. The Priest beholds the 
veils ; his sob is nearly soundless. 

“Mignonne! Mignonne!” 

Sweet tones of all nature rise up and break upon 
the virgin’s ear. Life is music; Being, one with 
melody. Heaven and Bliss are but the bursting 
forth of the Silent Song, the revelation to our- 
selves of melodious soul. Rising moon sheds 
down benediction. With faint cry Babette stretches 
forth her arms unto the new light. A form comes 
forth towards her, the form of her Prince unspeak- 
ably glorified, Pierrot made one with holy radiance. 

It glides through space ; it hath the Bright upon 
its brow, and the shroud about it, but the grave 
gear hath lining of lilies, and sheds sweet odor of 
many Springs, and gives forth the music of the 
woods. It floats towards her: Wide, wider, her 
pale arms outstretch to clasp it. Pere St. Cyr 


8o 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


again would calm her. It cannot be, she is strong 
with the strength of her love, and sits almost up- 
right. Still the Spirit draws near upon twilight 
waters ; still the maiden strains to its embrace. 
Moon goldens, the dusk is as wide halo ; through 
the gloom sounds Babette’s voice, grown deep 
with ecstacy. — 

“Pierrot, the stars were right, and the flowers 
in Gran’ mere’s garden ; we have not lived till 

now you came to me through the sunset, 

we must go that way.” 

One draws near: a voice! one whose heart is 
happy — a song! — We hear the words: 

*• Si voits me regretlez, O! je vous en supplie, 
Donnez-moi cette rose qui touche voire main.” 

Swift and clear the maiden’s answer: — 

“ Pierrot . this.... is .. Love." 

A keen movement forward — the virgin clasps 
the Spirit form ; she looks transfigured. Mon 
Pere cannot stay her ; she falls among the 
Cherokees. 

The gold cloud melts into sunset. Evening 
gathers up the gamut of her hues and weaves them 
into a hymn-like crown ; it beams, and spins a 
moment on the verge of gloom, and sinks in 
sparkles through the dark ; it is the night. By the 
Cherokees, and the river, the margin lilies close 
about, and above the maiden form ; in this chaste 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


81 


half light they seem to spring therefrom ; it is the 
night . Stillness folded like a tired bird, anon 
makes whisper: it is the night. 

Tree, and shrub, and flower give back the 
names, Babette! Pierrot! And doth the field 
make murmur, Babette! Pierrot! And waters 
even to the utmost waters, Babette! Pierrot ! The 
joyful hills and mountain places, Babette ! Pierrot ! 
The sigh of desert, the carol of green woods, the 
pipe of grass, Babette! Pierrot! Soul and the 
eternal heart, Babette ! Pierrot! For is Creation 
one, its pathos, its pain, and its impenetrable 
full orbed joy ; and is the laugh of the babe and 
the tear of the man, as impersonal and as univer- 
sal as the gathering wind. 

And hath love been folded unto Love, the 
beautiful unto Beauty. 

High and blithe rings out the chanson d'amour ; 
the swain bounds on glad foot across the meadows ; 
again the words, this time clearer still: — 

“ Si vous me regreltez , O ! je vous en supplie, 

Do nnes- rnoi cette rose qui touche voire main.” 

Pierrot returns from his hunt, with game to 
cheer the wedding guests upon the morrow; he 
seeks his bride.... and beneath the Cherokee 
hedges the Roses lie dead. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


The Passing of Spring. 


Soul hath her being through dumb, 
Unrevealing years. Suddenly, 

The great Hour pacing muffled at 
Her side, turns its sacred face upon 
Her. Spirit revealed unto itself, 
Passing from mere being into Life, 
Rounds out man’s Cosmos. 


The great overflow is upon us. The Missis- 
sippi, Nile of Louisiana, engulfs her bosom. It 
will teem with fruitage, like new made mother, 
when the river king recedes. It is the wide mar- 
riage of the land and waters, to which is born the 
white and gold harvests of the cotton and the 
cane. The coast is submerged, and the fields for 
miles inland. The strained levees are rent and 
ploughed into countless widening channels, through 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


§3 


which the victorious waters pant with boom, and 
hiss and yell, until the lacerated breastworks 
bleed at every vein like vast monsters torn in 
battle. 

Here in Rose Hamlet there is no cemetery. 
The people love the old resting place of their 
fathers, the ancient churchyard of St. Francis; it 
is common burial place of the Parish. Back from 
La Belle Riviere the mournful Arcadian wends his 
way out to the Mississippi, to the venerable grave- 
yard on its brink, to lay the newly dead in the 
holy dust of the pioneers. In time of flood the 
sacred custom may not be departed from ; he 
must cross the great waters, floating the dead in 
stout bark skiff made by his hands. And when 
the land is green, he travels through odorous 
roads, the still form lying in sweet smelling straw 
in the great slow moving wain. 

Now the overflow is upon us. There is peace 
and beauty in Rose Hamlet, for, many a mile of 
land and pasture rolls between its homes and the 
flood. In the far portions of the Parish the waters 
have sway, and roll gray and limitless, into 
horizon. Houses are whelmed up to their chim- 
neys ; wan faced children peer into the flood from 
roof tops ; gaunt women stretch forth their hands 
for bread towards the relief boats coming up from 
New Orleans. There is desolation upon the land. 
Dead oxen and heifers drift out on sullen waters. 


84 THE NEW PSYCHE. 

Here and there, over the dull wide waste, living 
cattle crouch on swaying driftwood, and half sub- 
merged trees. And anon, it stares, above the 
flood, the thing that yesterday men called man or 
woman — and sinks with gurgle back into the 
deeps. From above and below, a vast sound 
gathers and deepens ; the wail of babe, the low of 
cattle, the call of fowl, the shriek of the dying, 
blending into wide, ocean-like moan. A scream! 
it tears through the flood, jagged, prolonged and 
shrill. Vulture wheels down in lessening gyra- 
tions upon her prey. On the island knoll of 
elevated ground — where rise tall gum trees — car- 
rion fowl gather in thousands, making fitful caw 
above the waters; the birds are waiting; there is 
desolation upon the land — above, the wide joy of 
May Arcadian heavens. 

Slowly, so slowly that motion is scarcely per- 
ceptible, yonder boats move on. They are many, 
a dozen, nay a score ; within them, the folk of 
Rose Hamlet. None remain in the village; there 
is silence within it. Old and young, the strong 
and the infirm, even the blind and the palsied, are 
afloat — one who was their light and their joy is 
borne forth, and the Arcadian leaves all to follow 
his love, even unto the end. In the large skiff 
that leads is Pere St. Cyr ; he has aged ; and the 
old Gran’mere, who hath peace because our 
Father holds her to His heart; and one there is, 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


3S 


black robed and motionless as graven image, 
Pierrot, the Arcadian. They have covered the 
bier with white blossoms ; the virgin’s hair flows 
among them. From skiff to skiff, from hand to 
hand, gleam tapers. Lights glimmer, and double 
and treble in endless repetition on the waters ; they 
pierce the flood and shine beneath, seemingly in- 
creasing always, gliding always onward. The 
village maidens clad in white bear garlands; they 
follow the bier in the second boat, and third and 
fourth. In the rest are the elders, the old men, 
the fathers and matrons. The train moves on, — 
past yonder bend — on to the Mississippi, the 
twinkling, darkling, fitful lights darting into the 
river and up again, light flight of stars. In all the 
Parishes des Arcadiens there was none like the dead 
maid, none so fair, so pure. 

A /as, Babette ! Alas, Pierrot! 

Slowly the boats pass on. They gain yonder 
bend and curl around it like shining ring, one by 
one, light after light, scintillating, wavering, ap- 
pearing, disappearing beneath the scattered oaks 
that lift above the deeps. 

Sunset ripens. The west is oriflamme, and sheds 
rose light as sweet odor. The joy steals fragrance 
wise across the flood ; waters bloom. One by one, 
the boats float on into the radiance. A quiver, a 


86 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


feeling of transition, a premonition, is in the air. 
The vast wings of the Spring stir faintly in its 
passing. On the morrow June sun will rise. 

One by one, the boats glide on, away from the 
inhabited places, away from the great murmur. In 
the vast silence of waters comes the first cry of 
katydid and locust. Summer is at hand. Swift 
twilight is upon us; the west is quenched in sud- 
den dark. There is whirr of multitudinous wings; 
swallows sweep above us in circles, now widen- 
ing, now lessening to a point in opposite distance, 
they will nest in the inland parishes. It is the 
passing of Spring. 

And to a soul by the bier there comes a void 
and a vision. Still Pierrot looks on the virgin, and 
through the void of death a bird-like note comes 
to him, and the spirit overshadows the maiden 
form, speaking thus unto his spirit: — 

“ Beloved, think not our nuptials are undone , we 
walked on earth with the Beautiful. I dwell now with 
Beautv; we lived by loving , of love I have my being. 
Drink of knowledge at the fountains of the Spring , 
and with eyes 7nade clear to see , and mind to know , thou 
wilt adore , and be purified through worship to walk 
with me in paths of thine Inheritance .” 

And the Arcadian grows conscious of his own soul , 
stands face to face with ego. About him there 
prevails the clear and tremulous sense of God. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 87 

His nameless, sentient, naked Love, of the kinship 
and nearness of all spirit ; the breath of angels en- 
circles men as atmosphere. 

Slowly one by one, the boats move on into the 
West. 

This morning when Durien the Notary, just 
returned from Grosse Tete, bore to the Olende 
cottage the license of marriage, the good man 
whistled his cheeriest tune, so blithe were the 
flowers of Babette, so blithe the birds of Babette ; 
not a bloom was faded or drooping, not a song 
had a single false note ; — within, just in the cham- 
ber’s centre, there was strange looking sawdust — 
Gran’mere was never untidy— and two little white 
shoes. Much the Notary wondered, that the 
Bridal sabots were forgotten, and wondered again 
that the Bride had gone so soon to the Hamlet ; 
not until ten was Sabbath High Mass, and noon 
was the hour for the wedding. And kind Durien, 
putting the wee shoes in his pocket, — he has a 
great heart and would not see the maid disap- 
pointed — goes merrily whistling, on through the 
lanes to the Hamlet. The ground is white as with 
snowflakes, for beneath the hedges of Cherokee, 
the Roses are scattered. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Before t\)e Dqwq. 


O! Spirit, art seeking unwearied the Light 
Amidst the great glooms, the shadows of night? 
Heart clothed in Sacrifice lindeth the Way; 

For Charity maketh the Beautiful Day. 


And Pierrot St. Eloise is seen no more in the 
Hamlet. Only Pere St. Cyr can tell of his dwell- 
ing place, and Mon Pere will not speak. When 
the old folks question him in the village, and the 
youths and maidens look a mute enquiry, he is 
wont to shake his snow white head, making an- 
swer: — “Dear children do not seek to know. The 
lad is gone from us ; it is for the best. He sor- 
rows with a great sorrow ; he could not stay 
longer in our midst. Remember him in your 
‘Ave Marias.’ ’’ And thus it is; Mon Pere will 
not speak. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


89 


There are some who believe the youth to have 
stolen back into the green depths of his own native 
Bayou. And some there are who give ear to old 
Dubois the fisherman, who wandered into the 
village last nightfall, and reports to have seen a 
fortnight since - one like our Pierrot, on board a 
rice trading boat at Donaldsonville. Others again, 
credit the young Priest Austin, lately sent by the 
Bishop of Cuba to aid Pere St. Cyr, who tells of a 
certain Arcadian dwelling with a Brotherhood of 
Mercy in the Antilles ; but the monk’s name he 
cannot tell, for the Arcadian speaks it not, only 
this: — “ I am a son of Louisiana, a child of grief 
and of the Teche.” But all is vague report, in- 
tangible rumor. 

* # * * * * 

Here among our people, the loves of the youth 
and the maiden are passing into a memory. But 
on this May Sabbath eve, good Mere C6cile (who 
saw him first) and two other dames of the Parish 
of Point Couple, relate how they beheld in the 
early morn a stranger clad in black robe glide 
past them, while gathering drift wood in St. 
Francis Cemetery. The form sought about until 
it found a grave apart from the rest in the rear of 
the Church, where it knelt down, and weeping, 
laid a garland on the tomb. 


9 ° 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


A score of Springs have come and gone. And 
when the Cherokees whiten the roadsides, with 
each returning eve of the last Sabbath of Our 
Lady’s month, the sable garbed pilgrim comes 
silently, and as silently departs. At times the 
villagers would question him, but there is that 
upon his face which checks them, and ere the 
more daring can speak, he is gone. Sometimes 
he is seen at dawn, sometimes at Vespers. There 
is always someone to witness his visit ; one year 
Michel the wood-cutter, another, Silvestre the 
Sexton, and others ; and the rose wreath bears 
witness alw'ays. 

Will he come again? — Spring stirs once more 
in the Cherokee hedges — new Roses bud. 



CHAPTER XV. 


Into the Perfect Day. 


The Soul that hath lost all esteemed 
Of God save Ueauty’s sense, redeemed 
Is by that saving power alway. 

For in this knowledge doth it pay 
Homage unto Good, which is 
The fii’st of all Necessities. 

****** *** 

A human form glides through the evening. By 
the sunset red on the Mississippi we see it move 
slowly towards us as we stand here in the old 
cemetery. The figure is black and bears a rose 
wreath. Once more the flood is upon us. It is 
May, and the last Sabbath eve of the month. The 
pilgrim’s face is turned from us, but his uncertain 
step disguises not from us a majesty of bearing 
and of form. A change has passed over him ; the 
consummation is at hand. The fading vital force 
concentrates in the look that gazes past us seeking. 
He finds the grave apart and lays down the 


9 2 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


garland. Now the stranger’s features are turned 
westward to the river ; they have dignity past the 
dignity of man. An energy, a great sweetness 
and spirit strength lies upon them. 

The water is very near; it absorbs the evening 
glory, and flows, a second glory, onward . . .Young 
purple wings uprise from the bosom of the West; 
it shows a red gash from which drops rain down 
and crimsons the river. The old Christ-like wound 
of nature is set in heaven. It is the sign of her 
woe because of that hate whose name is Sin that 
killeth Love, and hath bidden Perfect Beauty veil 
her countenance. 

Beyond, to north, and west, and south, the great 
empurpled flood sweeps outward to horizon. The 
Churchyard on its high knoll looms above the 
waters. Light from the west falls on the tombs 
of the fathers ; they shine out like forms of saints 
upon Rock of Ages. It falls on the old Church, 
and its cross that seems like the Master standing 
amid His elect. It falls clear upon the grave 
apart and the mourner. 

A long unutterable sigh steals among the tombs 
and out upon the flood. The pilgrim lies pros- 
trate ; his head covering has fallen aside ; it is a 
cowl. The garb is that of the Miserecordia. He 
is powerless to move, we stand face to face with — 
Pierrot the A rcadia?i ! 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


93 


His strength is departing, he will die. No 
bodily decay is manifest, no ravage of approach- 
ing dissolution. There are the fair proportions 
of perfect manhood, the frame shows no lines of 
physical agony ; and yet, he will die. It is rather 
the passing of body into Spirit, than their separa- 
tion, the absorption of the natural life into that of 
the soul. There is no sign of death’s presence in 
the body, yet this is death. On the monk’s coun- 
tenance is writ that bliss the spirit knoweth when 
first it passeth into fields of Revelation, the light 
that shineth upon soul brought face to face with 
Beauty ; from his brow beams the Love that is 
Knowledge. 

He is dying ; is dying fast. 

Of old, the layman who stood before the Holy 
of Holies met his death of justice. In all ages 
the heart that looks upon the Lord seeks death of 
His mercy. 

Once more the sigh of the pilgrim is heard on 
the evening. The dawn of Joy is not yet perfect. 
Truth’s image clears within his soul, but faint in- 
tangible shadow lingers— the taint of earthly regret, 
the regret for human love. 

The holy soul of soul, the heart of heart, that 
dominant principle of our being which is prophet, 
seer and teacher, the ideal of self that hath sacred 


94 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


reality, is transmuting the human of him into 
itself, is cleansing him of what of earth’s alloy 
remains within him ; but the purification is not 
yet accomplished. 

False strength comes to the pilgrim. He turns 
once more towards the grave ; as he does so he is 
conscious of fresh beauty about him ; new lights 
fall upon the tomb. He raises his head and be- 
holds. A great rainbow beams out between sky 
and flood ; it bends until its fairness touches the 
grave and is lost therein. 

And from the buried virgin’s virgin dust comes 
a voice breathing over his spirit the peace born of 
perfect sacrifice in hearts. Through his soul it 
flows like healing oil, bringing calm even as the 
words of the Blessed One unto Sea of Galilee. 
He looks upon the Symbol of Promise, and in the 
look regret falls from him ; the consummation is 
indeed at hand. The monk stands as one trans- 
figured, his arms wide opened towards the west. 
For the first time his uplifted voice peals son- 
orously among the sepulchres: — 

“ / come , Ol Beloved ! I come . The way is clear ; 
it is even as thou foretoldest — I follow thee now — 
through the sunset at last.” 

“ And behold the veil of the Temple was rent,” 
and unto man was revealed the Holy of Holies. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


95 


The dead Brother of the Miserecordia lies 
prone upon the tomb. The slab is gray with 
years; and thereon one word is written, only 
this : — 


♦ ♦ 

“ BABETTE.” 

♦ + 

Close to the grave of the maiden grows the 
Cherokee rose, and in the Springs snows the 
white blooms thick upon it, with its presence 
making sweet the air. In language that the clean 
of soul may understand it speaks this prophecy: — 
“ She is not dead but sleep eth." 

And again, through all lands and climes, in the 
fruitful and desert places, from the Cedars of 
Lebanon to palm groves in the Indian Sea, from 
yellow corn fields of the west even to olive woods 
of the east, from pole to pole, and ocean unto 
ocean is heard, echoed and reechoed, the gospel 
of all Spring: — ^ She is not dead , but sleepetlu" 

Through human heart it has vibrated in all ages, 
and until time shall be no more, will vibrate. 
Through heart of believer and unbeliever, of 
faithful and faithless ; but only unto him who loves 
much will be given its perfect understanding. 


9 6 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 

Beauty lives eternal, one with Love, perfect 
only in its fields beyond the suns. On earth, and 
through Creation, yawns no grave for Love ; no 
accident of change or of decay hath power to en- 
tomb the Beautiful. At times they lie in seeming 
death, it is but to rise again with the Ancient One 
at Dawn. 

In Rose Hamlet, along La Belle Riviere , through- 
out the meadows, and in the common field, all 
bursts into bud and breaks into song. The 
splendors of another sunset fold themselves away, 
glory upon glory along the west, from which 
floats up a halo, the echo of its fires. Land and 
stream lie sanctified in chaste gold light. Virgin 
Arcadia, robed in the Cherokees, clasps white arms 
about the blue river-lake the holy sapphire symbol 
of her covenant with Peace, and smiles in answer 
to her mating doves. Eternal Spring anoints the 
fields once more. Behold ! in the hedges, the 
Roses bloom. 


AFTERWORD. 


More than half a century Cherokee Rose has 
opened in the hedges of New Arcadia, and the 
Springs have come to birth upon its meadows, 
bringing joy to the inland Parishes, but deepening 
the doom that broods over the old churchyard of 
St. Francis. With each returning year the waters 
of the Mississippi have crept landward, steadily, 
slowly, surely gaining inch by inch, rood by rood, 
creeping near, yet nearer, brushing away the great 
levee as a cobweb from their path, sweeping it 
away again and again as soon as replaced by the 
hand of man, until the wise of the nation behold- 
ing the powerlessness of human toil, moved the 
site of the government levee inland, leaving 
Church and Cemetery to their doom. And it has 
fallen. Today there is upon the spot a desola- 
tion like no other desolation, a holy and awful 
abandonment, that strong man looks on as he 
looks on ruined altar, speaking in whispers, and 
with uncovered brow ; a fearful and piteous 
solitude that woman beholds only through her 
tears. 


9 S 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


And thou, O ! Heart of the South, with thy love 
for old memories, thy deep tenderness for the 
ashes of the firstborn, the great universal heart of 
all lands where men reck of thy history beats in 
sympathy with thy dole. 

Peace has departed from the tomb. The grave 
gives up its dead even unto the waters. Thus 
passes away the most priceless relic, the most 
venerable landmark of Louisiana. Not a stone 
of the Church stands upon a stone, and at rest in 
their graves no longer 

‘•The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.” 

Some of the sacred dust of the Pioneers has 
been removed by the Arcadians and Creoles with 
the filial love of those sons of the soil, to the 
Cemetery of New Roads, the Parish county seat. 
The remains of Julien Poydras now rest in the 
grounds of the Poydras Academy of that place. 

Over the Arcadian parishes have passed the 
changes of the years. The climate, warm in the days 
of the early settlers, has grown fresh and mild ; 
and the wild fowl has gone from the waters of La 
Belle Riviere. But the soil still gives forth its 
wonderful abundance, and the cane, the cotton, 
and the corn come to white and gold harvests, 
the glory of the land. Upon the spot is the 
Beauty that departeth not. 


THE NEW PSYCHE. 


99 


The tomb of the Arcadian lovers is seen no 
more by men. Dear Brother, should you pass 
the place where once it stood— and you may pass 
it, for again the flood has rolled backward from 
the land — walk in all reverence as before an 
“ Altar where the Host has left the memory of its 
sacrifice.” For their life theme is graven, not 
indeed upon stone which passes away, but on 
human heart, and on the soul which will endure 
when the mountains have perished, and the hills 
are not. Go! read it likewise in the field, thereon 
are set the Scriptures, there the Lord hath written 
the Book of Revelations. Go! learn it of the 
meadow, every bloom and grass blade tells it, — 
stay, hear me yet , — the Cherokees have the lesson. 


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